


Appetence

by elysian_drops



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Biting, Blood Kink, Creature Inheritance, Dark Harry Potter, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Girl-Who-Lived (Harry Potter), Good Severus Snape, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minister for Magic Tom Riddle, Minor Character Death, One-Sided Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Parselmouths, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Tom Riddle, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Severus Snape Has a Heart, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, voldemort - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 61
Words: 349,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elysian_drops/pseuds/elysian_drops
Summary: Appetence— defined as an attraction, a natural affinity, or an instinctive desire. A cosmic sort of bond that clouds the mind until all thought is consumed by that singular point of infatuation.When Voldemort divines what Harri Potter truly means to him all those years ago in the graveyard, a festering sort of obsession begins. His horcrux. A part of his split soul, crafted from his marrow, magic, and might— his very own damning appetence.He knows what has been kept from him, what rightfully belongs at his side, and he wants her back.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 2053
Kudos: 2874
Collections: Dark Liege Potter, Extraordinary Harry Potter FanFics, Potter and Riddle, Voldemort beside a Female Potter, read and reread again





	1. Irony is Harri Potter's Best Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! 
> 
> I have been toying around with the idea of a femHarry story for quite some time now and I am beyond excited to finally start posting these chapters. This is the first fanfic I have written so if you have any comments, constructive or otherwise, I would love to hear them! Currently, this story is also without a beta— while I do make an attempt to reread several times to catch any errors, a few are bound to pop up. 
> 
> There are also a few things I just want to bring to your attention:  
> \- This is a femHarry story so if you aren't a fan of the genderswap trope, then please take note of this! I have also aged her age up to be 15 at the beginning of the plot rather than 14.  
> \- We begin at the end of the Triwizard Tournament and there have been a few tweaks I have made to the canon to better suit the overall story.  
> \- I have tagged this as 'Explicit' and with 'Eventual Sexual Content'. There will be no actual sex, however, until Harri is 'of age'. I have only used the 'Underage' tag to conform with the American standard that the actual age of majority is 18— in the Wizarding World, it is 17 but I wanted to avoid any issues that may arise from that discrepancy.  
> \- What I am writing is not meant to be pure smut or porn without plot, despite what the rating and tags may say— there will be some scenes of that nature but they will be far later into the story! I just wanted to cover all bases possible.  
> \- Also, as a fair warning, this fic will get rather dark and there are sensitive topics mentioned, such as abuse and trauma stemming from it.
> 
> And as always, Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling in every which way! I hope you guys enjoy this story and thank you for clicking on it!
> 
> **I have also linked my social media in my bio as well if you want to reach out to me or see my inspiration boards!**

* * *

* * *

If Harri Potter had been forced to sum up her entire existence into one, singular word, she felt that “ironic” would be most suitable. 

Ironic in the way a fire station is burnt to the ground. 

Or, perhaps, in the way a man's car is hit by an ambulance on his way to the hospital.

And the more she reflected on the word, the more ascertained she was that it was her perfect companion. The ever-present theme to all of her experiences— a perfect, six-letter epithet made solely just for her. It was a seemingly private joke she was not privy to understanding, a cruelty that Fate had so lovingly imparted to make her life just a touch more tiresome, a tad more strained.

Even now, huddled behind a crumbling gravestone and dirt-caked fingers trembling stubbornly about her wand, she could find it reflected in her current situation. After all, Hogwarts, widely deemed to be the safest place for young witches and wizards, chose to host a competition designed to torture and maim its competitors— the very same students the school was supposed to be protecting.

Voldemort, a man who sought to evade death at every turn, chose for his rebirth to take place on the Reaper's very own front doorstep— a _graveyard_.

And Harri, the naive girl she was who simply wished for just one peaceful, uneventful school year, had found herself unwittingly spitting on the solemn declaration made to Hermione and Ron at the beginning of term— _"Nothing will go wrong this year, I just feel it."_

Though, in all hindsight, and considering her past track record, she did wonder how she had even been capable of such hope— or why, for a different matter, had she foolishly expressed such a desire? Because in all actuality, she had more than likely jinxed her 5th year in the process rather than blessing it. 'There's a reason why muggles don't say their wishes aloud,' a passing thought as a glance was spared down to the jagged fingernails, each one broken and dirty from scrabbling in the mud. Instead of being in her beloved common room and in front of a roaring fire, steadily nursing a mug of hot chocolate and wiggling her toes in garishly coloured wool socks, she was _here_.

Hidden behind someone's decaying grave, their memory as faded as the name engraved into the stone, crouching in the damp earth and shivering from the cold as the Dark Lord was brought into existence once more.

The irony was abundant.

"Wormtail. The girl."

The words were hissed, a drawn-out whisper that caused her skin to crawl in turn. Tension drew her shoulders up and nerves licked along the knobs of her spine— the reality of the situation had yanked her from the safety of her introspection. 

Her breaths devolved into shallow bursts.

While Pettigrew had been busy marvelling at the frothing cauldron, enraptured by the resurrection of his Lord, Harri had managed to slip his flimsy bonds. She felt no remorse in taking full advantage of his enamoured daze to chance a daring flight of escape— nor of relying on her skill to hide. It was a talent acutely honed over the years, a skill developed out of necessity— to learn to make herself small. Insignificant. 

Unnoticeable.

In a household where too-loud steps were readily punished and the motto 'children should be seen, not heard' was taken to a literal degree, Harri had discovered the importance of not drawing attention. How to slip under the radar and to avoid heavy hands, to seek out the best hiding spots on a moment's notice and to wait out the passing storm. Such an ability especially came in handy during bouts of her dear cousin's favourite pastime of 'Harri-Hunting'— a game that had marked her childhood and left several lingering scars. But how vindictive was she in her glee when she would spend hours watching the boy search high and low for her to no avail, colouring purple with his frustrations before eventually giving up.

'But Dudley's just a muggle,' a grim thought, sobering in its implications. Dudley didn't have magic— he couldn't weasel her out with location spells or conjured fire, couldn't search for her signature or potentially hear her thoughts. And the threat of him wasn't _real_. He never sought to kill or irreversibly maim— and how did his antics pale in comparison to her current reality. Mere child's play.

Fingers flexed about the wand as Harri cradled it to her chest, the press of warming holly against the dulling beat of her heart. A drawn breath was held, refusing to be let go despite the burning in her lungs. She dared not to exhale, too afraid of giving him an indication as to where she might be hidden— a cry of thinly-veiled horror resounded between the scattered stones.

Her absence, it would seem, was finally noted. 

“M-my Lord, she’s gone,” the man stuttered in turn.

A beat of silence ensued.

The dampness of the spring night clung to her exposed arms as though it were a second skin, the fine mist a chilling shroud. Her ears strained to make out what was happening, the scattered symphony of crickets, a relentless chirping floating from somewhere beyond the iron fence, mistakenly occupying her attention instead. It was too quiet— too still.

That lethargic pulse had given rise to a flighty cadence, adrenaline spiking as her heart strained against the confines of its cage— too much pressure attempting to pass through too thin veins. 'This is it.' Her mind readily supplied the sound of nearing footsteps— of a skeletal monster outfitted in tattered robes looming ever so closer. Maybe he had found her. Maybe he already knew and was just toying with her—

Reedy screams fractured the quiet.

She blinked in alarm at the wet, gurgling noises— they morphed into the grating wails of a man in pain as his body was forced to contort in ways it naturally shouldn't. Harri shrank back against the rough stone, ignoring the way it bit into her bare shoulders and scraped the pale skin raw. She couldn't bring herself to dare look over the gravestone's edge, unable to gather the bravery required to witness the horror of another's torture. Her mind was imaginative enough as it conjured images that made her want to retch. Green eyes screwed themselves shut as shaky hands pressed against her ears to vainly block out the sounds.

It was a mercy when the cries had finally ceased.

“It is no matter. She is here somewhere, I can feel it. Your arm, Wormtail.”

There it was again— the chill ghosting through her, goosebumps prickling over clammy skin at that voice. 

_His_ voice.

For reasons that completely escaped her understanding, Harri found there to be an odd sense of familiarity in the way he spoke. She knew she could blindly pick it out from a crowd if asked to do so despite having only heard it twice— that's all it took for it to become forever imprinted and seared onto her long-term memory.

Two times hearing it and she _remembered_. 

And it wasn't for the distinct sibilance it possessed, the way the vowels were carried with an irrefutable authority. No, it was more so that there was a quality to it that resonated deep within herself— an instinctual recognition. Such a thing defied all rhyme and reason, especially when considering that their previous interactions had been limited to a face on the back of Quirrell's head and an afterimage of Tom Riddle— both of which weren't even _truly_ him.

No, they were shells. Empty husks. Poor imitations that paled in comparison to the monster standing a few feet away in the dew ladened grass.

Child's play.

Green eyes squinted into the darkness in search of another exit, the need for an escape only heightening. However, much to her ever-mounting dismay, there appeared to only be one— and it was clear across the expanse of the cemetery, a good yard or two of exposed lawn. Even with the gruelling training she had been put through to become a seeker, the endless laps she ran around the perimeter of the Black Lake in preparation for their upcoming matches, Harri doubted she could be quick enough to make it unnoticed. Her gaze narrowed a fraction to reconfirm the distance to the wrought iron gate— a groan when she arrived at the same conclusion. 'Impossible.'

Slumping down against the grave's marker, the crown of her head bumped absentmindedly against its carved back— a desperate attempt to spark some ideas through the repetitive motion. Options raced by at a dizzying speed, a bitterness bright upon her tongue when the best plan, the only plan, she had come up with was to catch Voldemort by surprise.

'Merlin, help me,' she moaned inwardly. It was a reckless idea and one that far surpassed even her standards for what was excusable. But she would be damned if she was to be slaughtered here with only crickets and moss-covered names to bear witness to her final moments.

The muscles in her calves tensed, the coil tightening, preparations being made to bolt. A Stupefy had already formed on the tip of her tongue, her jaw ticked in determination.

“Stupefy, then run. Stupefy. Run. Stupefy. Run,” she chanted under her breath in a mantra to keep her focus.

The wand was clamped between her teeth as numbed fingers double-knotted the muddied laces of the worn sneakers. 'Stupefy. Run. Simple enough. You got this, Harri.'

Drawing in a shaky breath, the girl searched to find her centre, her calm— to summon forth the adrenaline that would lead her into a blind charge. However, just as she was ready to leap out in true Gryffindor fashion, to burst out in a blaze of glory, several rather distinct 'pops' forced her to pause.

An unusual sound, it had defiled the quiet of the cemetery and interrupted the melodic symphony of the crickets. Brows knitted together and locked knees went lax. The mind, having forgotten the simple two-point instruction, turned to puzzling out what those cracks could have possibly meant. For the first time all night, Harri chanced a glimpse over the edge of the tombstone.

What greeted her was perturbing.

Several wizards, outfitted in austerely cut robes and silver masks, were loitering about. A moment passed and the pieces fell into place as to what had just transpired. ‘He summoned the bloody Death Eaters.’ The slew of inward curses was unable to be helped as the heels of dirty palms pressed unkindly into her eyes. There was the mounting swell of frustration as the one plan she had been banking on fell apart, disintegrating into ruin before it could even come to fruition. The one golden window of opportunity had passed before she could stop it and what was left behind was an embittered understanding that she was now, undeniably, stranded.

“Shit,” was her frustrated hiss as the holly wand was tossed forcefully to the ground.

Maybe if it had been just the Dark Lord and herself, she could have had a fighting chance— but even her luck was bound to run out when faced with 6, maybe 7, fully capable and grown wizards. Especially so considering that she had yet to complete her own schooling with grades barely passable at the best of times. It was moments like these when Harri couldn't help but wonder what Hermione would do if dropped unexpectedly into a similar situation. And, not for the first time in her life, she found herself desperately wishing that she possessed her friend's brilliant brain and encyclopedic knowledge.

“That damn cup.” Her gaze slid upwards to the night sky, holding no small amount of contempt as it fixed mutinously upon the flickering northern star. “I wouldn't even be here if I hadn’t bloody touched it in the first place.” 

A delayed reaction of a slow blink— another to follow. Her mouth, the bottom lip split from a rather nasty fall in the maze, parted in shock as the pieces clicked. How did she not see it sooner? How did she not possibly understand the extent of the magic behind the goblet? Distantly, a chiding voice looped in her mind, the clipped pronunciation of an Oxford accent eerily similar to Hermione's— it was encouraging her to use her brain more often, pointing out rather snidely that the head on her shoulders was there for a reason.

“I’m truly an idiot,” she mumbled scathingly, pressing chilled hands to her forehead. “It’s a portkey.”

And if it was a portkey— that meant it went both ways.

The girl spared a second to peer around the stone, eyes casting wildly about the mayhem of grown-over graves in search of the illuminated trophy. Even with her, admittedly, rather limited vision, she should be able to see its brightness, its beckoning light. And there— on the other side of the winged statue and a few feet from the cathedral arched gate. The flush of triumph, warm and pleasant, filled her to the brim and, were it not for the fact that there were a number of questionably dark wizards now occupying the cemetery, she might have cried out in relief.

Finding herself somewhat apologetic towards the star for glaring, she mouthed a rushed out 'thank you' before snatching up the discarded wand from the mud.

A deep breath in.

A controlled exhale out.

Harri attempted to recall the motions for the summoning spell, green eyes fixed determinedly on that distant, blue light. "Accio cup!"

Nothing happened.

The trophy remained in its casted off position, unbothered and unheeding the insistent call. When a second attempt yielded the same result, she swore under her breath at the conclusion it was probably too far away. 

She would have to get closer.

“Things can never be easy, can they?”

Her head snapped to the left, tilting slightly as she strained to listen in on Voldemort's continuing speech. ‘What a narcissist.’ He was droning on about his inevitable triumph over death, about his prowess and might— the resulting scoff was unbidden. In a way, Harri was reminded of those poorly written Bond villains, the ones obsessed with the deliverance of their monologue to even notice their greatest nemesis was slipping past them. The sort that Dudley was enamoured with, glued to the television set on Saturday nights while the channels looped black and white reruns.

Reaching up to tighten the fraying ponytail, the hair matted with dirt and sweat, her shoulders rolled in a conscious attempt to loosen the tension being held in them. ‘You got this, Harri.’ A shakily drawn breath, an exhale through chapped lips— the hand not holding the wand had curled into a fist in a bid to stop its trembling. 

And then she bolted.

Ducking behind the closest gravestone, heart set into a punishing tempo and hammering wildly, the girl paused for a passing moment to see if anyone had noticed her. 

One. 

Two. 

Three seconds passed.

Mercifully, no sounds of alarm were raised. ‘Maybe this is going to work.’ It was a hope she knew she shouldn’t have dared to entertain, at least not right now, but one she indulged in all the same. Breaths shallow and a pulsating drum in her ears, Harri counted down from 10. Her lips moved soundlessly as she did so, muscles taut in anticipation—‘Now!’

Scurrying onto the next, attention fixed resolutely on the distant cup, it had taken her by surprise when the headstone to her left erupted without warning.

The deafening crack of stone splitting. A stray piece clipping her calf— a cry of shocked pain as she dove the last few inches to safety.

“Ah, Harri Potter. There you are,” Voldemort’s tone was soft, casual, and entirely unbefitting of the situation. “I was beginning to wonder where you had disappeared to.”

Bubbling past her lips was a shaky moan as the throbbing in her leg demanded attention. Harri chanced a glimpse down— it was only with a good deal of effort that she managed to stave off the threat of fainting. There was a considerable gash in the muscle, the wound deeply set and glinting wetly under the moonlight. A sourness rose, the taste of bile a bright bloom upon her tongue. She tore her gaze from it in a futile attempt to keep her wits and the contents of her stomach down. 

Any and all focus, however, was quickly siphoned off to the spasm in her arm and the resulting pain that shot up along it. In the haste to find cover, the cut from Pettigrew's blade had cracked back open— a profuse well of scarlet was leaking out from the jagged line and weeping to an alarming degree. 'Well. Shit.'

The sting radiating from the flayed skin had made it difficult to properly grasp the holly wand, fingers lax about the wood as the girl gingerly cradled the injured arm to her chest. Once again, it would appear that her luck was running out just when it was most direly needed.

“Do you know, Harri, how rude it is to ignore someone when they are speaking to you?”

That was all the warning she received before another tombstone shattered.

Instinctively, she flinched at the unexpected display of violence— at the thunderous sound of stone shattering and the resulting quake that rippled through the earth below. Even now, that yellowed light lingered as flickering spots behind her lids— superimposed images of a destructive spell. 

The revelation of what he was doing, of what he was trying to achieve by destroying any potential hiding spots caused her blood to chill. 'He's flushing me out.'

Teeth sank into that split bottom lip, worrying it absentmindedly until the taste of copper overpowered all other senses. She needed a plan _now_. A way out— yet her mind was content on remaining disparagingly quiet.

On her periphery, the goblet was pulsating— a beacon of hope, an unspoken promise of freedom. It was so close. Just a little further and she could reach it. With a resolute nod for her own benefit, trying to convince herself it was a solid enough strategy, Harri tentatively rose on shaking legs. 

Blood began to flow in earnest from her calf.

“Well, don’t you know how rude it is to ruin someone’s tombstone? Honestly, have some respect for the dead," she sniped back, squaring her shoulders in what, she hoped, would appear like a brave gesture.

A minute had passed where all they did was stare at one another. A suspended moment of quiet and of weighted appraisal.

Harri studied the pale monster before her. His robes, loosely tailored and cut from the cloth so black that they blended into the shadows, were seemingly animated with a mind of their own, curling and kissing his feet in reverence. And there was an odd stillness to him, the silhouette rigid as the barest signs of life came only in the way of his magic— it rolled off of him, so dark, so twisted that it was practically palpable to her. His skin, she noted with some revulsion, was stretched too far over the skeletal frame, revealing every blue vein, every filament, and sinew that composed his newly-constructed body. And rather than having a nose, the feature sacrificed in the process of resurrection, two snake-like slits remained to serve as an indication of where it once had been.

‘Sweet Merlin, he’s tall’, a numb horror as her eyes raked over the Dark Lord’s towering form. The wizards nearest to him were diminished and dwarfed in comparison. 

But the most striking detail of his were those glowing eyes— as red as the blood trickling down her leg with only slitted pupils to punctuate the crimson background. A testament to his lost humanity, of the brimstone and hellfire that he was, most certainly, crafted from.

This Voldemort was nothing like the pathetic husk on the back of Quirrell's head or the ghost of a handsome young boy from a diary. No, _this_ Voldemort was entirely too real. Too solid. Too unnerving. He was in his own league, the other forms he had once possessed a waned juxtaposition to the one standing a few feet away. And Harri tried her best to suppress the shiver when that burning gaze trained itself upon her, the look in it unreadable. Calculating, assessing. 'A monster from a nightmare', she thought grimly, uneasily shifting the weight off her injured leg.

Meanwhile, Voldemort took in the battered girl before him— an odd sight to behold. She was smaller than he had expected, her frame a touch too slight, too delicate even for a 15-year old. From the few sparse spots where mud had yet to collect, or where bruises weren’t blooming in sickly shades of purple, he noticed that she was quite fair— almost cream-coloured in complexion. It was a truthful sentiment when he considered that she might be viewed as conventionally attractive when the filth was wiped away— or when those tattered muggle clothes were replaced with proper attire.

Her features were refined, pointed and elegant— undeniable evidence of the purposeful breeding her lineage had sown. And the auburn hair, a few shades darker than her mother’s he recalled, was wild and coming out frayed from the ponytail atop her crown. Yet, strangely enough, it suited the girl. Utterly defiant even down to the fiery strands.

But it was her eyes that ultimately drew him to her in the end— an unearthly shade of green. Those eyes were what startled him, as ethereal and vivid as his own, a rebellious glint in their depths that made them _glow_ under the moonlight. They served as a mocking reminder of his failure— an echo of the killing curse that should have gotten rid of her when she was a child. Unwittingly, they conjured up images from the night that he had been reduced to a wraith, had lost everything he had worked for and built up throughout the decades. 

They inspired his wrath— and a fear he refused to openly acknowledge.

The Dark Lord continued to study the trembling girl for just a moment longer, a second of prolonged silence where his gaze dragged in a slow, purposeful rake— a vain attempt to commit her to his memory once more.

And then hell was unleashed.


	2. The Cup Finally Listened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick little note that Cedric is alive in this fic and wasn't with Harri in the graveyard! 
> 
> Enjoy 💕

* * *

* * *

The warning came as a blur of movement and the streak of a bone-white wand cutting through the night. Voldemort's wrist snapped forward— a wordless spell of electrifying purple.

Harri had barely managed to avoid it, diving out of its path at the last second to land heavily on the ground. Despite the stinging in her shin from the impact, an ache felt down to her marrow, the girl forced herself to roll up onto her right side. And, not for the first time, did she bless the existence of quidditch, for the seeker-honed instincts and reaction times that derived from the gruelling sport. A silent vow was made, as she glanced over her shoulder, to never complain about their practice drills ever again.

The spot where she had been standing prior was now charred and sizzling violently against the dew. Accompanying it was a distinct burning smell that lingered in the air— an acrid scent that made one's eyes water. 

And though she had no clue as to what the spell might have been, the incantation lacking that would have allowed her to guess, she could just as easily hazard it was not light in nature— and was, most certainly, designed to cause a good deal of suffering.

A languid path of heat was dripping down the length of her forearm, a steady and trickling sensation that registered on the edges of her awareness. Uneasily, green eyes drifted down to take in the jagged cut, the gore bright against the smattering of mud— it looked even more ghastly than before. Having been jostled in the attempt to dodge the spellfire, the skin, stretched too tightly, split further— a gaping gash that the flayed edges did little to keep closed.

Teeth nearly cracked in a reflexive attempt to ignore the acute sting and the way the cool breeze served to agitate it. But it was best to feel pain, she figured— pain, at least, meant that she was still alive and that had to count for something. 

Harri twisted on the ground, her own counterspell aimless and wild in its trajectory. "Expelliarmus!"

The jet of brilliant light had overshot its target, disintegrating without much fanfare against a gravestone instead.

He hadn’t countered right away— an unspoken ceasefire to allow her to gather her bearings. Scrambling to stand back up, the hurried action caused the ground to tilt dangerously and a hiss escaped out from pressed lips. The injured calf was all but crying in protest— the girl gingerly shifted the weight off it, taking the proffered second of respite to study the Dark Lord.

In the ensuing silence, several abrupt realisations had finally begun to process through the queue of delayed thoughts— she hadn’t even seen his hand move or even heard him utter a single, damnable whisper. It was a startling conclusion to arrive at, one that made her feel nauseous in turn and that healthily nursed an uncertainty in her own abilities. Wordless casting was usually reserved for their 7th, 6th if you were lucky enough to be advanced, year, the common consensus holding that it was rather difficult to do— nevermind being able to perform it with regularity.

Yet, here she was. Duelling a wizard that had done so just as naturally as breathing, one who hadn’t even blinked or given it a second thought. Meanwhile, she could barely direct a proper disarming spell his way. ‘Merlin, help me’.

He seemed entirely too calm, too relaxed, skeletal fingers twirling and twisting the yew in his grasp absentmindedly. There was a look of assessment in that glowing gaze, one that relayed a disappointment at her feeble attempts to fend him off. And even Harri had to admit it hadn’t been her finest moment, her movements hindered by the distracting agony in her arm.

The blood was beginning to drip down into her palm, her fingers slickened. It was a struggle to keep a decent hold on the holly. 

However, Harri was never one to waste a moment, the temporary standstill a perfect chance to try again. To show her mettle, her tenacity— to perhaps earn her freedom in kind.

Gritting her teeth to block out the pain, she thrust her wand forward. “Expelliarmus!”

Satisfaction, bright and welcomed, was the perfect distraction as the spell was more direct this time around, the aim better controlled standing versus being sprawled on the ground. The corkscrew of light was barrelling towards the center of his sternum, an inevitable collision at a blurring speed.

But then that pride, that triumph, vanished seeing how easily he had batted it away, a disdainful smile stretching his thin lips— a row of sharpened teeth befitting a predator.

“Oh, come now, Harri. I know you can do better than this. Or has Hogwarts suffered to such a degree under Dumbledore that you can not manage anything more than a simple disarming spell?”

There was a belittling deprecation to his words, a purposeful goading that made her temper flare. While there was a small voice encouraging her to ignore it, to understand that he was attempting to rile her up into making a mistake, it was drowned out by the stronger desire to punch him— to lash out physically if she couldn’t do so with magic. It was a tempting enough idea despite him, undoubtedly, having an advantage in that area as well. After all, he was the one who towered and loomed in stature. 

The one who hadn’t spent most of the night sprinting through a maze intent on maiming him.

The one who wasn’t currently saturating the grass under his feet with his own blood. 

She shifted restlessly, trying to swallow down the spiteful retort.

Around them, the scattered Death Eaters let out their jeers of support in a cacophony of voices. So focused was she on Voldemort that Harri had, somehow, forgotten their presences entirely— phantom spectators bearing witness to their Lord’s one-sided battle. Some were agreeing with Dumbledore’s insufficiencies, others cried out for her suffering, for their master to end the existence of the Girl Who Lived— and a few were content to comment on her incapabilities, deeming her unworthy of a wand and demanding it should be snapped.

Green eyes darted about their silver masks, the fine scrolls and details that concealed their identities, and how she wished to forcefully unveil each one— to point out that a courtesy was owed to not hide themselves when mocking her.

Bitterness coated her tongue and it was only the flickering glow on her periphery, the alluring call of the Triwizard Cup, that grounded her. It was enough to let their spite and provocations fall away into mindless chatter. 

‘Just a little further and then we’ll see who can manage,’ the thought was born out of indignation and a healthy dose of vitriol as she forced her attention back to the Dark Lord.

Harri stepped a few paces back, favouring the left leg to keep a majority of her weight off the injured one, a ringing in her ears. Voldemort mimicked the movement, a step forward to match a step back in a striving effort to close the gap between them. He seemed unaware that she was leading him in a dance across the cemetery, positioning herself to be at an advantage closer to the trophy.

Crimson eyes were glinting in delight, a thrill held in them at her nonverbal agreement that their temporary armistice was over.

A tongue darted skittishly over chapped lips, her mind distant and turning over rapidly in an attempt to recall the appropriate spell. “Confringo!” 

Flames, blinding and passionate, shot forth from her wand’s tip as they consumed the expanse of grass that lay between them. The heat was welcomed, crackling in its anger and unspoken mission to protect its caster. A thick veil of smoke had begun to settle in concealing plumes that drifted upwards to the night sky. 

It was all the opportunity Harri needed.

Victory surged and granted tired legs the newfound ability to pump harder, to block out the pain in order to carry herself to safety. Harri ignored the steady path trickling down her calf and soaking into her socks, her shoes— in fact, it barely registered that the blood was flowing more readily. Rather, all attention was consumed by the soft blue light in the distance and the safety it represented.

With some difficulty, the girl had managed to dodge between haphazardly placed tombstones and uneven divots in the ground, the roar of the fire at her back serving as fuel to keep moving. 

‘I’m going to make it.’ Hope, a warming buoyancy spread out through her limbs. It made her footsteps lighter, as though they had been blessed by Hermes himself, and for her chest to flutter. 

The discarded cup was nearing, fingers spread wide and outreaching.

It was _so_ close, ready for the taking.

And then the winged statue guarding it was suddenly prompted into action, a grinding screech as stone turned animate.

The reaper had used the handle of its scythe to catch her about the waist, pulling the girl towards itself with a crushing force and caging her in. Her vision dimmed, a creeping blackness that eclipsed all else— it was a struggle to replace the breath that had been robbed from her lungs. Already, the lower set of her ribs were smarting, a telling sign that an ugly bruise was, undoubtedly, forming.

It took a few seconds for Harri to overcome the daze, to blink back the stupor and to regain her wits. 'He knew what I was planning.' And how terrifying was that notion.

Then she was struggling in earnest, doubling the efforts to break free of the stone prison she had found herself in—the statue tightened the embrace, refusing to relinquish its prize before its master arrived. A frustrated scream when her arms were pinned down, battered legs flailing and kicking at the empty air. 

And all the while, the cup lay at her side, a mocking glint that seemed to taunt with how close she had been. 

“Better, Harri. Much better,” Voldemort mused from beyond the curtain of smoke, eyes flashing with a warped sense of approval.

A slight wave of the bone-white wand led to the flames parting, the Red Sea bowing to his might. The fire trembled and willingly submitted to a greater power. “But not quite enough.”

Following the Dark Lord through the dying fire was the fluid form of a snake— one far larger than any Harri had observed in the glass cages at the zoo or at pet stores. Its triangular head was flat and the golden eyes, keen in their shine, pierced through the darkness to fixate on her.

Seeing the unexpected creature was enough to make her stomach lurch, to renew the efforts to flee. Broken fingernails scrabbled along the scythe’s handle, desperately trying to pry it away— all doomed attempts. Ever since the chamber incident, Harri had made it a point to avoid any and all serpents, having found that her parseltongue abilities did very little to quell the basilisk’s innate desire to kill. Just because snakes _understood_ her doesn't mean they actually _listened_.

Amidst the commotion, the holly wand had been dropped in surprise by the unanticipated capture. Harri spared a glance down towards it, brows drawn together in desperation as she silently begged it to fly up into her splayed palm— to come to the rescue of its master. Such concentration, however, was broken when a thick coil of cool muscle brushed against the uninjured leg, the snake languidly beginning to wind its way about her thrashing body. The urge to faint was mounting and the efforts to kick it off were feeble— the weight of the beast was making it nearly impossible to move.

‘Oh, sweet Merlin.’ It was twisting past her hips, those yellow eyes practically shining in the darkness and never once leaving her own.

“Ah. I see that Nagini has taken a liking to you,” Voldemort noted in passing amusement, a slyness undercutting the tone as if he could sense the girl’s anxiety. “Consider it an honour. She usually is off-put by strangers. Then again, you are not really a stranger, are you, Harri?”

He stalked closer to her prone form, the robes fluidly curling about his bare feet in a whisper— they seemingly kissed the ground he walked upon. No mind was paid to the damp chill of the grass. 

Scarlet eyes flitted across her waned face, searching for what, exactly, he did not know. 

But then they landed on that infamous lightning scar peeking out between auburn strands.

The tip of the yew wand raised to gently, almost lovingly, part the hair to reveal the curse mark— the very reason for his defeat, for his supposed death. Even among the dirt, the mud and sweat, it was still visible against her skin. Raised and never fully healed over, a constant reminder of that night, of her misfortune, that she had to forever live with. Part of him wondered what she must feel upon looking in the mirror every morning only to see the irrefutable evidence of their history together— was it anger? Or despair? Perhaps even both?

The hitch of a breath broke his contemplative reverie and Voldemort allowed his attention to drift. Her chest was rapidly rising and falling— an uneven tempo marked by shallow, stilted inhales. It would appear that the girl was hyperventilating, trying to greedily gulp in air where none was to be found. As simple of an action as it was, it entirely betrayed her true fear, the terror at having him be so near. And how it filled every inch, every crevice of his being with accomplishment— a vindictive pleasure that derived from seeing the famed Chosen One reduced to such a state. 

And all because of _him_. 

“I remember when you were just a babe." The look in his eyes hardened as they critically raked over her bruised body. "Oh, how very brave Lily Potter was, standing in front of your crib and pleading with me to take her life instead.”

Something unsettling and dark was unfurling in him as he recollected the very minutes leading up to his downfall. “To spare yours in turn.”

That night replayed in the forefront of his thoughts. That night when he was reduced to nothing, to rabble, to squalor— brought to heel by a child not even 2 years old and who couldn’t wipe the drool from her chin without aid. It was the grandest joke Fate had ever seen fit to play on him, a jest meant to mock and humble— too bad he was never one for humour.

“I also remember what it felt like to be adrift for fifteen long years, lacking a physical form and having to leech off others to remain sentient,” he sneered, lip curling distastefully. 

Harri shuddered at the confession, trying to puzzle out where he was possibly going with this thread of conversation— or what his end goal might possibly be. Part of her wished that he would kill her already if he was planning to do so, to get this all over with— to stop dragging it out needlessly with details of an event she barely possessed an awareness of. 'But that's exactly what he wants, isn’t it? To make me suffer first.'

A sharp gasp tumbled past chapped lips. She was distracted from those burning eyes when the snake had curiously flicked its forked tongue against her thigh, an unnerving sensation that made her squirm. It was no small relief when the creature finally unwound itself from her legs, apparently having discovered something else of immense interest.

 _“Massster,_ ” Nagini hissed, curling at the base of the tombstone and trying to refocus the Dark Lord’s attention back to the present.

The girl looked on in bewilderment.

It was so jarring to hear a snake speak after having spent the past 3 years decidedly avoiding their company. And it would appear, despite the preference and wish to do so, that her ability to understand them hadn’t disappeared— a curse disguised as a blessing, she figured. The language was just as slippery as she remembered, as smooth and fluid in its inflections. Completely different than when she spoke it herself, her tongue far too accustomed to English to possibly sound like a native speaker. But nevertheless, there was the oddest urge, a curious desire Harri couldn’t quite understand, to try to mimic the snake’s exact accent— to attempt to force her palette to replicate the sounds.

But then she was jolted back to the monster in front of her when he shifted forward.

The Dark Lord had deemed it appropriate to lean in even closer. And at this distance, all of the gruesome details that had gone unnoticed from afar were revealed, the little traces that betrayed his lack of humanity. Like how, for example, there was the faintest shimmer of scales on the curve of his cheekbones, the bone structure alien and far too sharply pointed. The cheeks did little to soften his face and, rather, accentuated the sloped planes with their hollowed gauntness.

Or how, for a different matter, his teeth were impossibly white, razorlike in sharpness and set against pale gums— the threat of a predator. 

Entirely disquieting.

His tone had taken on a maniacal delight, pitching and very nearly bordering on parseltongue in his excitement. “Fifteen years and unable to _eat_ anything, _drink_ anything, _touch_ anything. Well, Harri Potter." 

A fervid look, one that relayed how many thoughts were rifling through his mind, glinted in those hellfire eyes. His gaze flickered restlessly over her features— over the bruises and grime, over the damaged heart-shaped face and quivering lower lip. It was as though he was trying to drink her in, to internally capture her in his mind’s eye. To savour and record this moment to relive at a later date— his ultimate triumph. To remember the seconds leading up to her final demise and the day in which he would finally vanquish the Girl Who Lived— would prove to all she was nothing more than a mere teenager. 

Harri shrank back against the stone, the rough texture scraping the skin raw and its gravel finding purchase in the soft angles of her shoulders. However, she would endure the burns, the bleeding, the stinging any day— so long as it meant earning some distance from the Devil before her. He was truly horrifying up close, a monster by all rights, and the look in his eyes did little to help to inspire a sense of ease. They were scorching in their heat, almost worshipful as they glazed over in an unfocused manner.

Helplessly, she tore her attention from him to stare longingly at the cup, desperately praying that it would fly into her hands and whisk her away. To allow her another chance to live. To, maybe, make this all out to be a bad dream— for her to wake up in the safety of the hospital wing, rendered unconscious by the maze’s sentient hedges and to determine that this was all an elaborate figment of an overactive imagination. ‘Please, please please.’ The chant was endless, an unspoken prayer that beseeched the universe to finally trade in her good karma. Surely she had to have earned a decent amount by now? After all, she never maimed or murdered, went out of her way to do the right thing even when those around her deemed it to be idiotically reckless. That had to count for something? Right?

“How things have changed since that Hallow’s Eve. In fact, I dare say that I can even touch you now,” depraved glee entered his voice, eyes blown wide in rapture as a skeletal finger hovered over the mark just above her brow.

And, for the first time all evening, Harri found herself to be actually taller than the Dark Lord, the latter having to resort to standing slightly on his toes.

‘Please please please,’ she begged every deity, every god she knew of, to listen— to heed her and send her the portkey. 

To help her escape. 

To understand that 15 years was not nearly long enough— that it was far too short and too cruel to end a life that had barely just begun. There was still so much she wanted to do, to accomplish, and see out in the world. So many words that remained unspoken, so many experiences, both good and bad, that were still yet to be had— so many people to make acquaintances with, and, perhaps, become something more together.

The world about her suddenly exploded in agony as he pressed down onto the scar, the pressure unyielding and penalising.

White-hot, searing, blinding— she was unable to focus on anything else other than the neon-coloured bursts erupting behind closed lids. A scream, too raw and real in its suffering, tore from her, the taste of copper slipping down her throat to settle in her stomach. She had thought that, perhaps, if she closed her eyes tight enough, there would be an escape awaiting her in the cooling darkness— a chance of reprieve.

It was pointless.

Of its own accord, her spine had arched away from the statue, thrashing and inflicting further damage onto an already abused ribcage. But she didn't care— she just needed to find a way to cope. Scorching tears trailed down the curves of her cheeks, a branding iron shoved down into her lungs that made every breath a searing ordeal. The girl had thought that she knew what true pain was before this moment— that it was her most intimate companion, a friend that shadowed her every step. But this? This was something else entirely. It was acrimonious. Ungodly. Infinite. ‘Please, please pleasepleaseplease,’ she chanted, clinging to the strung together mantra and the vivid image of the glowing goblet when the wave of agony refused to abate. 

Fingernails splintered and peeled as they tried to sink into the stone to ground herself.

And dimly, she could register the peals of laughter from Voldemort as he revelled in the suffering he had sown— at the sensation of touch finally being restored after drifting in the void as a wraith for far too long. 

His delight was abruptly cut short.

The sound had been clipped in half, his mouth closing with an audible snap as he withdrew the touch, rearing back and cradling the hand to his chest as though it had been burnt. Confusion gave way to a pinched expression, those glowing eyes darkening in their dismay as though he couldn’t quite believe what he had stumbled upon— it made his blood run cold and for his heart to momentarily seize. ‘Impossible.’

Harri slumped in relief at the broken contact, energy drained as a spasm convulsed through tired muscles— they jumped sporadically, a minute twitch as they sought to process what she had been put through. And some part of her was morbidly curious as to what he had done, why he had stopped when nothing was apparently holding him back— to understand the strange magic he apparently held over her. 

But then another part was just thankful the pain was gone and that she could see again— albeit in a haze. A tinge of scarlet trickled into her line of sight, the cemetery turning red as a result. She blinked hurriedly, frantic in a bid to clear it away. ‘My scar.’ A belated realisation that the mark was weeping in the wake of his contact, angry and disturbed. When her vision was mostly restored, it was to see the stormy countenance of the Dark Lord hovering mere inches away, eyes narrowed in outrage— and almost fear?

“ _You_ —,” he hissed out.

Voldemort had tentatively taken a step back from the restrained girl to silently observe, a rigidity entering the lines of his body. 'It's not possible.’ A new gleam, one of contemplation, lit up crimson eyes from within. Those slitted nostrils flared ever so slightly as though he were breathing in her scent.

And Harri didn’t know which was worse— his unbridled wrath and demented elation or his purposeful dissection. The way he was staring reminded her of how a scientist might look upon an unknown specimen under a glass slide. How one might increase the magnification with every pass in hopes of unveiling its mysteries, of spotting something entirely game changing. Like she was a curiosity, a wonder to be held— one that left him bewildered, puzzled, and without an answer. Her stomach lurched at the thought.

 _“I tried to tell you. Ssshe’ss familiar,”_ the snake said reproachfully from the base of the statue, its flat head nodding sagely and forked tongue flicking out to taste the crisp spring air.

The drawn out sibilance of parseltongue was hard for Harri to register through the ringing in her ears. That pulsating drum made the world sound far too distant— as though she were being held underwater, drowning and forced to watch on through a bubble. Every inch of her ached, smarted and throbbed, the sweet breath stolen from her lungs as delayed sensations were finally catching up. 

Emerald eyes glanced towards the goblet again, tears clinging stubbornly to fanned lashes from the residual pain and frustration. ‘Please, please, _please_.’

Without warning, a scream of vexation resounded from the Dark Lord, a tomb nearby shattering in the face of his anger.

The magic rolling off of him was heady and twisted, coating Harri’s tongue and settling over her like a second skin— a clinging, insistent sort of weight that refused to part. And how that only served to petrify her further. Whatever he had discovered was apparently fit enough to inspire a more extreme displeasure, an uninhibited kind of wrath. 

Overhead, clouds were gathering ominously and obscuring the stars from view. 

Nagini dropped from the platform, muscular body skimming the girl’s ankles in the process. The snake wound her way up to his shoulders, a susurrating whisper for him to calm down before he could cause irrevocable damage. 

It seemed to have worked for Voldemort paused, the crook of an index finger reaching up to trail down his familiar’s scaled back. 

And then he spun on his heels, chest heaving with effort and burning gaze darting rapidly over her suspended form.

 _“It can not be,”_ his tone was uncharacteristically emotional as he spoke to Nagini, parseltongue spilling out from his lips.

 _"But it is,"_ Nagini responded bluntly.

For once in his life, Voldemort, a man who thought he knew almost everything and who had cheated death, who had performed feats that lesser men could only ever dream of, was at a loss. By all accounts, it should have been infeasible— a living human as a horcrux? One who already possessed its own soul, its own personality— who had developed their own life as an animated being but forced to house another’s soul? It was paradoxical in all sense of the word. A mystery that left him speechless. 

Adrift. 

And yet, the proof rested in front of him. 

In this mere slip of a girl with hair like fire and eyes an echo of a curse was a sliver of himself. 

His own horcrux.

Her attention fixed resolutely on the cup, ignoring when he had turned from her once more in a flurry of rushed whispers. The Dark Lord was having a conversation with his companion, heads bowed together in their plotting that she wasn’t privy to. It didn’t matter. Not now. Harri’s entire world had tunnelled down to just herself and the trophy, begging silently for it to move. She considered it owed her that at the very least, seeing how she had been put through hell and back for its damn competition.

Brows knitted together, mind consumed with projecting her will outwards. And it was difficult to even remember the last time she had desired something so intensely, had felt it so viscerally that it made her heart twinge and an insatiable itch to writhe between her ribs. ‘Please!’

The goblet twitched, fidgeting for a split second on the ground in response. 

In the background, Voldemort was restlessly pacing and vaguely addressing his followers through doled out commands. 

Green eyes widened marginally at the jump, the rattling of its handles and vibration of magic made only for her ears. A sweet melody, a dulcet refrain that promised impending freedom. 

A sheen of cold sweat across her back, mouth parched, the tempo of her pulse a punishing speed.

“Please!” she whispered more so to herself, voice coloured with urgency.

The cup, having had enough of her pleading, finally flew into her outstretched palm just in time for the Dark Lord to whirl around.

 _“No!_ ”

It was the last thing she had heard, the yell competing with the crash of thunder above. His face, illuminated by the ensuing flash of lightning, was one that was marked by horror. A skeletal hand darted forward only to grasp at empty air. 

The graveyard bled from her view in a dizzying whirl of colour. 

* * *

* * *

A soft groan slipped out as Harri landed unkindly back into the recessed stadium, a swell of jovial music greeting her arrival.

Feet swayed unsteadily, split lips quirking into a smile upon seeing the school’s castle hovering in the background. It was as beautiful as always. 

Blinking against the twinkling lights, resigning herself to the safety its halls could provide, the girl only half-heard the cheers morphing into screams as her vision dimmed— an encroaching darkness and a sweeping tide of dizziness before she fell.


	3. Sugar Quills and Red Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you for all of the comments, kudos and bookmarks so far! I really appreciate it 💕
> 
> For this chapter, there are some things I've changed around:  
> \- Cedric isn't dead in this version  
> \- Harri was declared the winner of the Triwizard Tournament

* * *

* * *

When Harri had finally reopened her eyes, it was to see a place dreadfully familiar to her— the hospital wing.

The girl had spent a good portion of her Hogwarts career here, surrounded by foul potions and sterile chemicals, tended to by an uncompromising mediwitch. In fact, she would probably dare to venture that her patient file was longer than the one that housed the history of her detentions, every school year earning at least three separate visits with the stern Madam Pomfrey.

Though, to say it was all bad wouldn’t exactly be fair. It was a well-guarded secret, after all, that the infirmary had the softest beds in the castle, far downier than the ones in the dorms, and usually attracted the greatest company. Plus, having an excuse to miss out on some classes was always welcomed.

The small smile couldn't quite be helped. Nor could the burst of warming contentment as she wriggled further under the duvet— the nest of pillows and the way the plush mattress conformed to the curve of her spine was something to be relished. After spending an entire year fighting for her life in a competition, one that she originally had no intention of even participating in, Harri felt that the cloudlike pillows and the moment of respite were all well-earned. And, for once, it was nice to be able to relax, to sleep a full night without planning and plotting until the hours before dawn in worry over what the next event could possibly bring. 

What she would give to stay in the hospital wing forever— in the peaceful quiet afforded to space, surrounded by luxuriously smooth sheets and the soft chirps of birdsong for companionship.

‘I can’t. Not when—.’ Her stomach lurched, a sense of dread rising as flashes of the graveyard replayed at a dizzying speed. The sibilant voice. The towering frame. The pale skin stretched too tightly— hellish eyes alight with fury, with desperation and bewilderment. Her helpless, pressed against the statue in searing agony while raw-throated screams pierced the night.

Harri sat up abruptly, plagued by the vaguest urge to retch and heart set into an erratic tempo as it all came back.

Voldemort was alive.

He had been brought forth from the void with a new body fashioned from the darkest of magic— he was _back_.

The Dark Lord had been made whole again, risen from the grave and it was, indirectly, entirely her fault. And now, he was roaming around Merlin only knew where, sowing destruction and death in his wake. 

Unbidden, memories of a boy emerging from a diary came to mind. A seraphic beauty that belonged in the Heavens and not made for mortal eyes to gaze upon, the ominous warning: _‘Lord Voldemort will return very much alive’_. And oh, how right had he been.

Her head swam, the blood running cold in the forks of her veins, thoughts sluggish and scattered. She needed to warn someone. Perhaps she should tell Dumbledore? Or the Ministry? To alert them, anyone, to the danger that was now wandering freely about their world. She needed to— and the adults would know what to do. They always did— right?

But just as she was about to call for Madam Pomfrey, intent on negotiating with the strict matron into releasing her early, an odd sight, one that had escaped her earlier attention, caused her to pause. Slumped over the mattress and near the foot of the bed was a mass of brunette curls rising and falling with each relaxed breath— an image Harri was entirely too familiar with. After all, it was one that she had spent the past 5 years watching and sleeping next to when the long hours of the night became plagued by demons— her own personal shield. 'Hermione.' 

Warmth blossomed. It was an overwhelming relief that seemed to quell the strung nerves ever-so-slightly, to lessen their bite and mollify the internal panic. The other Gryffindor had apparently fallen asleep in the infirmary, the rosy light of the dawn seeping through the sheer drapes indicating that the girl had arrived sometime late in the night. It was a touching show of loyalty, of care and love. Something writhed about her heart.

Harri reached down, displacing the duvet as thin fingers gave a slight squeeze to the sleeping girl’s hand. She attempted to plaster on her best 'I’m-fine-even-though-I-may-not-look-it' smile.

“Hey, ‘Mione,” a soft whisper to avoid startling her friend awake.

Relief gave way to fondness as Harri noted the minute movements— the telling signs that the girl was slowly stirring. Hermione lethargically came back to the land of the living, blinking back sleep with dazed confusion. It took a second for those honey coloured eyes to regain clarity, for her to understand her surroundings. Harri smiled a bit at that, not at all surprised— Hermione always took forever to get up in the mornings.

And then brows had furrowed. The witch launched herself across the bed with a spray of wild curls, arms throwing wide about narrow shoulders. Harri winced slightly at the tightness of the embrace, at the desperation behind it— nonetheless, she tried to accept it with all the grace she knew how.

“Harri James Potter! What. Is. Wrong. With. You!?”

The taller girl leaned away, lower lip quivering in an obvious sign of her distress. “Can you not go one year without attempting to get yourself killed!? I swear! I’ve never met anyone more prone to life-threatening idiocy! When you showed up looking like that—.”

Hermione trailed off, stubbornly wiping away the first signs of her tears with the back of her hand. It was a struggle to regain her composure, a distant voice chiding herself to act more mature. After all, it wasn't like this had been Harri's fault entirely— that she hadn't purposefully gotten herself harmed. But how else was she supposed to react upon seeing her best friend suddenly reappear in the stadium bruised, battered, and bloodied? She could have sworn her heart had stopped when she witnessed the girl collapsing. How quickly she had dropped to a lifeless heap— so small. So unmoving. It was moments like those that always reminded her that, while Harri Potter was brash and brave, her friend talented and overflowing with raw magic, she was still human— that she could die just as easily as any of them. That, in spite of the feats the girl had accomplished in the past, extraordinary things most in their year could never do, she still had weaknesses. Vulnerabilities 

An entirely discomforting revelation.

Harri frowned as guilt replaced that warmth, unnerved by the fact that she had reduced her friend to sobbing. Reaching forward, she pulled the teary-eyed girl back into her arms. "Hey, I survived, right? No loss of limbs or anything— I still have the 'Potter luck' on my side. So, please, 'Mione, don't worry about me."

Before Hermione could find it in herself to reprimand her roommate, to claim she would always worry about the girl and her recklessness, 'Potter luck' aside, the heavy oak doors swung open. A pale boy with carrot-orange hair and a smattering of freckles stood sheepishly on the other side.

His arms were stuffed with various sweets, his posture almost sheepish as he shuffled into the infirmary. There was an understanding that he was encroaching upon a heartfelt moment between the two girls, an apologetic smile tossed their way.

“They said you were awake. I wanted to come earlier but I got, ya know, held up.” Ron gestured with a shrug to the armful of candy before depositing the haul onto a chair. “This is from everyone. They wanted to be here too but Pomfrey’s only letting two in at a time.”

Green eyes lit up as Harri marvelled at the mountain of gifts, unable to contain how touched she felt at the generosity of her friends— an effervescent spark of joy that lightened her mood. With a free hand, the other arm still wrapped around Hermione's shoulders, she motioned for Ron to come closer. Awkwardly trying to manoeuvre without letting go of the girl, she managed to give the boy a fleeting side hug.

“It’s okay. Tell them I said thank you,” she mumbled as he withdrew, wincing at the soreness in her shoulders.

Hermione reared back in apology, brows still knitted together in worry but the tears, mercifully, dried. She scooted closer to make room for Ron, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settled near the foot of the bed. He reached for a few handfuls of candy, tossing some onto the bed as Harri drew up her knees.

The trio sat in silence for a second, idly rifling through the assortment when Ron finally cleared his throat. “So uh, that was a wild way to end the year. What, uhm, even happened? Back there, I mean.”

Harri slowly blinked up at him, fingers stilling in their action of lightly trailing over the sweets. It hadn't escaped her notice that Hermione had nudged the boy, a sharp look directed his way and mouth pulled into an exasperated frown. 

Setting aside the red sugar quill she had been admiring, green eyes drifted down to marvel at the newly fixed fingernails, their jagged edges made whole again. ‘Is there anything magic can’t do?’ An absentminded thought as she examined the cream coloured skin of her forearms, the trace of Pettigrew’s cut completely gone. Any physical evidence of the man forcefully stealing her blood to resurrect the one intent on murdering her had been vanished. Healed. Hidden. ‘It’s as though it never happened,’ the passing thought was grim, wishing vainly with all her might that it was the truth— that the entire ordeal had been a vivid figment of her imagination.

But no.

No, Harri could still hear his voice, the hissing a persistent pressure popping in her ears. She could still see the glow of crimson pinpoints superimposed behind closed lids. Could still viscerally feel the frigidness of his lingering touch upon her. All of that couldn't just be a product of her mind, no matter how much easier it would be to say that it was.

“Voldemort's back,” she stated bluntly, not in the mood to talk about it when she, herself, was still trying to come to terms with the idea—there was a pleading note in her voice for them to drop it.

Truthfully, Harri didn’t want to reflect on any of it. Not what caused him to be so upset and perplexed after touching her scar. Not Nagini referring to her as familiar. Not the pain he had caused her or his dismay when she had fled. It seemed sacrilegious to the safe space she was currently in, an irrational fear that, if she thought too much about him, Voldemort would reappear— a monster crawling out from under the bed to turn her nightmares into a reality.

And her friends, bless them, didn't even question the validity of the statement or accuse her of lying— nor did they ask how it was even possible. Rather, they simply fell silent, a soft 'oh' sound escaping Ron as he somberly picked through a stack of Bertie Botts. Hermione looked a touch pallid as she glanced towards the glass panes of the arched windows, no doubt processing the implications.

Harri plucked at a frayed thread on the sheets, content enough to let the silence reign on.

It was Ron who saw fit to break it first, a shaky grin as he valiantly attempted to liven up the mood. “W-well, on the bright side, you made history. Again.”

Green eyes fixed on him with blatant confusion. Hermione frowned as she half-twisted to look back at Ron, waiting for the boy to elaborate. 

“You won the Triwizard Tournament. Like, legit won! Blimey Harri, and you’re only fifteen too. The only one to ever actually enter _and_ win.” He shook his head in amazement, eyes glazing over in wonder. “Is there anything you can’t do, mate?”

It took her a second to process his words. And then Harri sent him a roguish grin, leaning forward to ask in a conspiratorial whisper, “How did Diggory take the loss?”

* * *

* * *

The trio had stayed together for a few hours longer until the sun had begun to set and the chirping melody of the songbirds trailed off into quiet. It was a blessed distraction, a sense of normalcy that she so desperately needed and craved. In the glow of their company, it was almost enough to make her forget about the Dark Lord. To ignore the inevitability of him seeking her out to vanquish his greatest foe. To ignore the looming countdown— that Sword of Damocles hanging by a precarious thread.

With their laughter and jokes, their bright smiles and light-hearted banter, it all seemed so distant— a nightmare she could temporarily leave behind. And, truth be told, Harri was more than looking forward to going back to her dorm room, to suffer Lavender’s gossip and preening concern, to start catching up on the homework that she had been neglecting— to settle back into the usual routine and bury the memories of the graveyard. 

Madam Pomfrey had other ideas.

The mediwitch managed to sink her claws into her charge, refusing to let her go until the following morning.

“Just in case,” the healer said with finality before ushering the two other Gryffindors out of the room, unfairly determining that visitation hours were done for the day.

Ron had shot Harri an apologetic look before the wide doors closed with a resounding click, leaving her to sink back down into the downy bed in defeat. 

And, just like that, the spell was broken.

Left alone with her thoughts, everything suddenly seemed too real, too concrete to brush off as anything other than such. Part of her desperately wished for them to come back, to help distract her— to let her play the game of ignorance for just a few minutes longer. 

She knew they couldn't.

An unfocused gaze turned towards the ceiling as the day's events played over in her mind’s eye— a film she was starring a passive role in. A mere bystander without any control. ‘They said I was out for three days,’ the thought was laced with numb detachment. ‘Three days but they didn’t even know he was back.’

Sometime in the late afternoon, Dumbledore had wandered in with Mad-Eye in tow, politely informing her of what had happened in regards to the tournament. Of course, she had been publicly declared the winner— but that was it. There had been nothing in the papers. No indication of the Dark Lord’s return, no murders or government overthrows as she had feared. It was all too normal. 

Too quiet.

‘The calm before the storm,’ a grim assessment that made her shudder. She couldn’t even fathom what he was planning, feeling too lost, too adrift, to even hazard a guess.

But it was the encounter with the professors that only added to her mounting concern— how greedily Moody had watched her, soaking in every possible detail she could remember about Voldemort's resurrection. How Dumbledore's eyes were critical, his posture relaying how apprehensive he was, how on guard. But, apart from that, they hadn't said much else— hadn't offered up a plan of action or verbally expressed their thoughts.

And there was no doubt in her mind that the two would have questioned her further, would have continued to press for information were it not for Pomfrey’s hawk-like staring and constant hovering. And truly, Harri found herself grateful and indebted to the healer when she finally ushered the adults out without any mind paid to their disgruntled disagreement. 

It was exhausting to relive it all. 

Thankfully, a moment's reprieve had finally come. As the sun had set, the moon replacing it in the sky, Harri was alone— but sleep was decidedly evading her, taunting and jeering by remaining just out of reach. Which, in all honesty, was entirely fine by her as she spent the next few hours unproductively attempting to figure out the reason as to why Voldemort had yet to make a move. Why hadn't he made his resurrection public? Why hadn't he openly staked his claim on the title of 'Dark Lord' once more? After all, it was only logical that he would.

A hand strayed to gingerly touch the scar above her brow, frustrated when no sensible answer came that could explain his lack of action.

With an agitated huff, annoyed at how useless her frenzied mind was, at how incoherent and scattered her thoughts were, Harri pulled the duvet over her head in a foul mood. Rolling over onto her side, she peered listlessly into the filtered darkness under the covers.

‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she thought groggily, suppressing the yawn in an attempt to fight off the beginning pulls of sleep. 'Perhaps he should stay hidden for now.’ A part of her already knew what would happen when he eventually came forward into the spotlight. Everyone would expect her to rise up against him, to defeat him with some fluke like she had when she wasn’t even 2 years old. To become their saviour, their mantle for a war she wasn’t even prepared for. Their bringer of peace— and how the thought filled her with incomprehensible dread.

A shiver ghosted through her at the unbidden images of how tall he had been, how many wordless spells he had used— how easily he had trapped her. ‘I still managed to escape though,’ a small voice supplied, a bitter smile sliding the corners of her mouth upwards as her eyes closed.

* * *

* * *

It was well past midnight, the silence of the castle heavy and weighted, when she had been jolted awake.

The windows of the infirmary had allowed for a healthy amount of moonlight to seep in, illuminating the furthest corners of the room in various shades of silvers and blues. However, despite the presence of light, oppressive darkness also thrived as stretches of lengthening shadows. Dread, overwhelming and foreboding, had been the culprit to wake her— a disquieting sense of being watched, of being studied. 

The awareness of such buzzed relentlessly in the back of her mind.

And as Harri squinted into the darkness, she couldn't help but puzzle over as to why the room suddenly felt so sinister. During the day, the infirmary had been welcoming enough. Pleasant even— but now it was almost hostile.

Something was _off_. 

Blinking to strengthen her night vision, Harri stared determinedly into the corner where the medicine cabinet rested, an instinctual understanding that something was hidden there. A presence had yanked her from her dreamless sleep— it was the kind that robbed her breath and incited a chill to clam over her skin. Absolutely unnerving.

Reluctantly glancing towards the wide, double doors and seeing they were still firmly shut, Harri propped herself up onto her elbows. 'There's nothing here. Go back to bed,' her mind rationalised as it begged her to heed the exhaustion of her body.

But, just as she was about to listen to the sensible advice, she saw _them_.

There, in the darkness, blood red and narrowed— they were silently watching in contemplation. 

Those eyes were ones she would know anywhere, their colour, their intensity, everything about them betraying an absence of humanity— they were _his_.

Harri attempted to jump out of bed, ready to scream, to warn the others that Voldemort was in the castle— to grab her wand in hopes of a defense. But her legs wouldn’t cooperate— they were seemingly pinned down by an invisible force. Panic welled, a mute scream clawing up her throat in a horror that was unable to be voiced.

The girl could only watch, paralyzed and in thinly-veiled fear, as those eyes moved closer and into the light.

Her hammering heart nearly stopped— a twisting pit in her stomach. Warning bells were going off in rapid succession as the shadows dripped, fluid and writhing, from his form to slowly materialise into something more solid. More real.

'Tom Riddle.'

It was the only coherent thought she had, the one word in a sea of white noise. He looked just like he had when he emerged from the diary all those years ago, intact and without bright spots of light puncturing his body. The same aristocratic jawline, the same porcelain skin. The same perfectly kempt hair, an air of casual grace clinging to the lines of his silhouette. 'But I killed you,' she thought hysterically, heartbeat jumpstarting again as he stalked closer.

There was an almost-predatory gleam in that burning gaze, his movements unhurried, languid— as though he were entirely in control.

A smirk appeared, the left corner lifting slightly higher than the right— it was as though he could hear her alarmed inner-monologue. He cocked his head, amusement flickering across his face as he dissected her— studying, observing, but refusing to speak. 

Harri knew he was taking some delight in the way she was struggling to fight off the unseen weight forcing her limbs down. And she also knew he could hear her flighty pulse, that he was enjoying watching her ribcage expand and collapse rapidly as she gulped in shallow breaths. Everything about him practically screamed she was giving him the exact reaction he had been angling for— but she could care less. 

Even if this was her mind playing a sick joke on her, there was an overriding need to escape— and to do it _now_.

“Oh, but you didn’t,” a simple response, the rich baritone of his voice lilting at her obvious disbelief. "If you had, would I be here now?"

Harri willed her legs to work, for her arms to move, for someone to come bursting in to release her from whatever spell this was.

The purposeful clicking of Oxford shoes filled the silence as he drew nearer. Each step was thunderous as he crossed the room with long strides.

He had paused at the edge of the mattress, glowing eyes roaming over her face, her body— there was something unreadable in them. Something entirely too starved. 

At this distance, Harri could make out all of the small, individual details that he was composed of. How, for example, those dark lashes fanned over high cheekbones— though they weren’t nearly as sharp as Voldemort's had been. How his skin was so smooth that it appeared to be cut from marble. The pronounced shape of a cupid's bow on a sultry mouth, the almond shape to his eyes— all details to a visage she had seen repeatedly, time and time again, in her memories since her 2nd year.

Wide eyes darted across his face to discern why he was possibly here— why his ghost had decided now was the perfect time to come back to haunt her. 'It's just a stress dream. Probably sleep paralysis,' she tried to rationalise. 'It has to be— just relax and he'll go away.'

A low chuckle, breathy and deep, escaped him as though he found her obvious discomfort to be the most entertaining thing in the world. He suddenly bent a knee, lowering himself closer to her, an elegantly shaped hand reaching for her forearm. Harri noticed, belatedly, that it was the same one that Pettigrew had carved into a few days prior for the resurrection, the one from which her blood had been forcibly taken.

It was a mesmerising sight— one she knew she should have been unsettled by— to watch how easily those fingers wrapped about her. 

Lips pressed to the inside of her wrist— a chaste kiss placed right over the blue fork in her veins. Those hellfire eyes held nothing short of a fierce promise as they locked with her own.

His voice was a soft whisper, a vow made with only the moon to bear witness, “Soon, Harri. Be ready.”

* * *

* * *

Her eyes flew open with a strangled gasp.

Harri glanced wildly about the room for any evidence, for any trace of what had just occurred— for the proof that it had been more than just a dream.

None was to be found.

It was entirely empty in the hospital wing, save for herself.

Tentatively moving her legs, content with the fact she could, a trembling hand was placed over her frantically beating heart in an attempt to calm it.

“He’s not here, he’s not here,” she chanted under her breath.

Harri tried to silence the pulse ringing in her ears, the pressure behind it making everything else sound too distant— too far away, too murky and muddled. Part of her was sorely regretting having turned down Pomfrey’s suggestion for a sleep potion as her head buried itself in a cradle of shaking hands.

After a few minutes, she blew out an uneven breath as her rational side attributed the encounter to heightened nerves— a hallucination brought on by the lethal combination of stress and an overactive imagination. 

Yet, as hard as she tried to ignore it, she could still feel the warmth on her arm where his fingers had curled possessively around her. Could still feel the lingering press of a velvet-soft kiss, the way his mouth had moved against her skin with a solemn promise. Could still see those burning crimson eyes that made her stomach clench uncomfortably.

Harri stubbornly screwed shut her lids, attempting to banish all thoughts of a long-since-deceased boy from a diary. Tried to find solace in the concept that it hadn't been real— to comfort herself that it was a dream. 

Completely fake. 

She had been mostly successful until one traitorous thought whispered in the back of her mind. The greatest possible betrayal— ‘Riddle never had red eyes.’


	4. All She Wanted Was A Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you to everyone that has commented and left kudos so far! It means so much to me that you guys are liking this story that much. Thank you for your support! 💕

* * *

* * *

Once Harri was released from the infirmary, much to Pomfrey’s reluctance, the remainder of the school year went by in a blur— a dizzying kaleidoscope of strung together days. 

The witch had spent the last 3 weeks in a frenzy, attempting to cram in any last-minute studying she possibly could before the upcoming O.W.L.S— all while juggling the occasional swarm of the press and their eagerness to get an exclusive with history’s youngest Triwizard Champion. Why they were even still allowed in the castle was beyond her comprehension, the relentless flash of their cameras only serving to induce a headache and inspire her irritation. 

Though, in truth, her sour mood had more to do with her current situation and less with the reporters themselves— even if she did find herself on more than one occasion wanting to hex them.

At an alarming rate, the last few weeks of her 5th-year were derailing and devolving into a tiresome routine. 

Eat. 

Study. 

Interview. 

Sleep.

Rinse and repeat.

And with each passing day, Harri found herself eagerly anticipating the bliss summer would provide and the chance it would give her to breathe and recharge. It went without saying that her poor mind, frazzled and wearing thin, barely had the strength to even consider the clothes she was going to wear the next day— nevermind plotting strategies to overthrow a rising Dark Lord. Though, mercifully, ever since the afterimage of Tom Riddle had appeared in the hospital wing, it had been suspiciously quiet in all regards.

No further apparitions. No public appearances. No ensuing battles— not that she entirely minded, of course.

Nightmares were her constant companion these days and if she could find some respite in her waking life, something her dreams wouldn’t provide, then Harri would gladly take the win.

Trudging up the stone steps from the dungeons, the fumes from the potions clinging insistently to her robes, all Harri found herself desperately wanting was a bath. A long, hot, luxurious soak with bubbles and a piping cup of chamomile on the side. One that could remove the obnoxious smells and scald her skin clean, relax her tense muscles, and give her a momentary sense of peace. 

Such an idea sounded absolutely _heavenly_.

The corridors of the castle were emptied, shadows cast long by the flickering flames on the walls’ sconces, and as disinclined feet carried her towards the dining hall, a thought crossed her mind to entirely skip the evening meal. ‘Hermione would have your head,’ a reprimand whispered— she grimaced at the truth in the statement. Somehow, she could already vividly picture blazing brown eyes, an Oxford accent pitched in dismay as it delved into a lecture on how important it was to eat balanced meals. 

Best to avoid that fate altogether— she didn’t have the energy to endure it.

The softest groan spilled past her lips as pale hands reached up to, absentmindedly, twist the auburn strands into a bun— the replacement wand was jabbed through the center to hold it in place.

Truly though, all she wanted was her bed. To sink down into the plush mattress and catch up on some much-needed sleep. But it appeared that wouldn’t happen— at least, not for another couple of hours. And most certainly not before she had a chance to bathe.

It had been an instinctive reaction, her nose wrinkling as she rubbed her fingers together, the traces of oil heavy on their pads. Harri nearly gagged at the film. The residue had been imparted onto her from the vapours of too much time passed over a bubbling cauldron. ‘No wonder Snape’s hair looks like that,’ she thought with blatant disgust. ‘Officially noted to cross ‘Potions Master’ off as a potential career path.’ At that very idea, however, she couldn’t quite help but chuckle to herself, twisting her spine as a symphony of pleasant cracks chased away any lingering discomfort. Potions, certainly, wasn’t her strongest suit— and judging by the way Snape always looked constipated whenever she turned in her “masterpieces”, he would be quick to agree.

Lighthearted chatter floated out from the cracked doors of the Great Hall and, despite the exhaustion, Harri felt her spirits lift somewhat at the sound. Everyone was equally relieved the year, and most importantly their exams, had finally ended, the lazy stretch of summer vacation laying before them a sea of endless opportunity. And she knew she wasn’t the only one who was looking forward to sleeping in, to not having to get up before noon for classes— well, at least that was until she went back to the Dursleys.

A bitterness coated her tongue and she tried to stamp down the mounting resentment— to forget about the impending housework, the gardening, the endless meals she would have to cook but never get to eat. ‘Back to being a slave,’ the inner voice was laced with venom and vitriol that soured her mood.

That darkening aura only persisted as she plopped down onto the long bench with an agitated huff. All Harri mustered was a mumbled 'hello' as she spooned mashed potatoes onto her plate, the sound a disheartening plop. And if her appetite had been lacking before, it was utterly nonexistent now. 

Hermione frowned as the redhead slid into the spot next to her, the air of her upset nearly palpable. Though, she considered, it was warranted— after all, her roommate had barely been sleeping to catch up on a year’s worth of studying. A soft tsk and she dipped a napkin into her water goblet, reaching forward to gently wipe away a smudge of charcoal from the girl’s cheek.

“Honestly,” Hermione muttered, fretting over the disarray of her friend’s appearance and obvious weariness. “I don’t understand why they couldn’t give you an extension for your O.W.L.S. Especially considering all that has happened this year—I mean, look at you!”

Ron had finally glanced up from his chewing, brows drawing together as he observed the bruising circles under his friend’s eyes and the way her auburn hair seemed to be a bit on the wild side. It was hard to miss how her thin shoulders were slumped by an invisible weight, normally vivid eyes just a touch too dull, too glassy.

“You look like hell, mate,” he supplied unhelpfully, nodding to Hermione in a show of agreement.

At the fretting of her friends, Harri couldn’t quite help but roll her eyes. She knew, of course, their intentions were well-placed— they always were. But, at the moment, she didn’t really care for sympathy or platitudes— she just wanted a bath and one night’s worth of sleep without nightmares. One night without having to relive the graveyard or gasping awake in a cold sweat because she had imagined crimson eyes peering out from the shadows. 

But, most of all, she wanted a summer without having to return to Privet Drive— to not sleep in a cramped room with bars on the window and sliding bolts on the door.

‘Don’t begrudge them. They don’t understand,’ rationality reasoned. She despised that her own mind was fighting against her emotions and was, unfortunately, correct.

Stubbornly pushing the peas around her plate, Harri muttered, “Geez, thanks, Ron. That’s exactly what a girl wants to hear.” 

But just as the boy was about to defend himself, to argue that he hadn’t meant anything bad by it, a piercing noise flooded the space of the Great Hall. It was a shrill note carried for too long— a vibration that Harri could feel down to her very teeth.

The students around her abruptly dropped their forks, their glasses of pumpkin juice spilling over and napkins fluttering to the ground as they attempted to cover their ears— startled yells manifested in pockets about the room that demanded to know what was happening. The professors seated along the head table scanned the crowd in alarmed confusion and tried to discern where the noise was possibly originating from. 

And then, as soon as it started, it stopped.

In the absence, a ringing silence ensued— a hush settled over the dining room's occupants as bewilderment flashed on their faces. It was a moment where no one dared to speak, to move— to so much as try to upright their knocked over glasses or pick up their fallen utensils. 

A universal understanding that something else was to come.

The lights had begun to flicker ominously, a unified movement as several heads lifted up to the enchanted ceiling. What had been a pleasant scene of a late spring night, wispy clouds in front of a waxing moon and a smattering of twinkling stars, was now a swirl of mist. Darkness. Tumultuous clouds swirling in a vortex, the previously comforting glow now obscured and eclipsed as a storm began to brew. 

A noise of pure, uninterrupted static quickly replaced the horrendous screeching, the fog quivering slightly in the wake of the sound.

And then a baritone voice filled the entirety of the space from somewhere beyond the haze, a bodiless spectre. 

An omniscient god.

Harri stilled in her seat, the blood draining from her and turning the tips of her fingers numb as she recognised who it belonged to— how could she not? After all, it was one she had been hearing in her dreams. It was the one from the chamber, from the impromptu hospital visit. There was a richness to it, a smoothness, the clipped and posh British accent that commanded attention without being outright forceful. It reminded her of a siren’s song, one that just begged to be listened to— to be obeyed. ‘It’s him.’ 

Green eyes darted around wildly to her classmates, looking for any signs of recognition. However, all of them remained blissfully ignorant as to who was currently addressing them. Who it was that had managed to slip past their wards— who could already very well be hidden somewhere in the castle.

She felt nauseous.

A quick glance was spared to Dumbledore. Blue eyes were glinting in apprehension from behind half-moon glasses, his mouth pressed into a thin line. ‘So he knows who it is.’ It was somewhat reassuring to know that she wasn’t the only one— or that, for once, she wasn’t left in the dark. Uneasily, her attention drifted down the line of the professors, the silhouettes of their bodies tensed. Rigid. McGonagall appeared to have aged 50 years in a split second, shock written so clearly on her lined face. Snape wore a pinched expression that made it appear as though he had smelled something unpleasant. And Mad-Eye was bordering on demented excitement, vaguely looking like he was rearing to fight, to leap from his seat as the magical eye whirled in its socket. 

With reluctance, her gaze returned to the ceiling’s portrayal of a night’s storm, watching the flashing lights with suspended trepidation. ‘Please, let this be a dream,’ a beg, a prayer to an unknown god that she had just fallen asleep somewhere— that this was just another nightmare she had managed to conjure. But a portion of her logically knew that she was completely awake. And how that scared her beyond all reason— because that meant he got _in_.

Somehow, he had invaded her safe space.

Her _home_.

That he was proving even the mighty Hogwarts wasn’t spared from his influence, his power. That the castle wasn't untouchable.

She was close to retching.

“For far too long has our world been left to go stagnant,” the voice began, the source originating from the ether. “Magic has been oppressed by those who are inferior, too afraid to understand its potential and too weak to seek it. Entire branches have been denied to our youth and mislabelled as ‘dangerous’ or ‘immoral’. We actively condemn those who desire to harness the power rooted in our old ways, threatening their very livelihood for even wishing to practice such arts.”

Here the bodiless voice had paused as students and professors alike stared, wide-eyed, in attempts to comprehend what was being implied. Hermione chanced a side-long glimpse over to her best friend, taking note of the girl’s stiff posture and waned face. Hesitantly, she reached out to wrap her fingers around the redhead's chilled hands, pulling them from her lap with a reassuring, quick squeeze.

Harri barely noticed it, however, her left leg bouncing restlessly under the table as she clung to every word, every inflection, every hidden meaning.

“And for far too long have we let lesser wizards dictate the rules of our world. This ends now,” the speaker continued after a moment of silence. “A new era is beginning. If you do not revolt, you have nothing to fear from us. If you cooperate, you will find yourself greatly rewarded and a place secured within our new order. Fail to do these things and you will find no mercy.”

Sobs interrupted the broadcast as a clump of first years at the end of the table had begun to react. Emerald eyes slid from the sky to them, impassively taking in their huddled forms.

Harri tried to find sympathy for the children, truly she did— had attempted to find the humane part to her that could understand their terror. But it was difficult to do so as she numbly observed McGonagall rising from her seat to hurry over.

There was a bitterness blooming in her heart, something dark writhing around the constricting muscle— a spark of jealousy.

When she was their age, she had been left to battle a troll, to face Quirrell and Voldemort in front of the Mirror of Erised— had even killed the man by merely touching him. But yet, she hadn’t been allowed to cry like that. To break down and, for once, act her age. To show she was weak, upset, and plagued by what she had done, to rely on someone else to console her— ‘The Chosen One’ doesn’t have that privilege. Dumbledore had all but explicitly told her that when he reminded her to be 'strong' and to 'carry on'— right before shipping her back to her relatives for the summer. ‘So why should they?’ 

Harri blinked once, then twice, shaking her head in a futile attempt to drive away the needlessly hateful thoughts. It wasn’t fair to have that expectation of them, to resent them for crying— to not show that they were unsettled and scared. After all, not everyone had to be saddled with the same burdens she did.

Jaw clenching, she snapped her gaze back to the ceiling, striving to forget their presence, their existence— to block out their soft cries. Peering through the agitated billow overhead, brows knitted together as she attempted to puzzle out if he was done or if he had something more to say. 

Prolonged silence, fingers slipping from Hermione’s hold to drum in a nervous tic against the wood grain of the table. ‘Maybe that’s it?’

But just as she thought that he had run the course of his speech, the voice had two final words to give as a parting. “Be ready.”

There was an uncanny understanding that he was, specifically, addressing her now and how it felt as though her soul had left her, entirely too powerless to stop the uncontrollable shiver that racked her frame. Her throat had become too dry, too parched. ‘He said those exact words to me.’ The guilt was abundant as she frantically scanned over the professors’ table. ‘A month ago, he gave me that exact warning'— cold dread seeped through her upon realising that it, most certainly, had not been a dream.

Students began to scrabble in panic, unsure how to process the information and properly react. It was understandable, of course, as a mysterious voice had all but declared there was to be a forced revolution upon their world, threatening to overthrow their entire existence. The mist began to evaporate, the normal night scenery slowly filtering back into view. ‘Maybe if I told someone, maybe if I told Dumbledore, he could’ve done something.’

But, instead, she had kept quiet while practically inviting the monster into their home.

It was a dreadful conclusion to arrive at— she should have warned more people of his return. Should have said something more than to just two teenagers and a pair of teachers who, most likely, hadn't even fully believed her. A bitter laugh almost escaped, a dawning revelation as to why Voldemort had yet to make a public move—he wanted it to be a surprise. He wanted to make it so no one would listen to her even if she tried to prematurely alert them to his rebirth.

‘But even now,’ a resentful assessment as she took in the chaos. ‘He still chose to keep his identity a secret.’ Part of her was impressed by his foresight in remaining hidden just a tad longer. After all, even if she wanted to speak out, who would believe her if she claimed that the bodiless voice just now was that of Lord Voldemort? A wizard that she had, supposedly, killed over a decade ago? And where would be her proof of such claims? All she had were memories, things that were already considered to be unreliable in a court of law due to their flighty and impressionable nature.

Prefects began to helplessly try to order their charges around, to demand they remain seated— they were completely out of their depths. Their power and training, apparently, was rendered useless when it came to dealing with a Dark Lord and his declaration on turning the wizarding world into a dictatorship. ‘Go figure.’

“Silence!”

Harri flinched as Dumbledore used a Sonorous charm to project his voice over the hectic din of the hall.

A blanketing hush followed as the students looked to their headmaster for guidance, their faces holding nervous hope and tentative relief.

"Prefects, please escort your students back to their common rooms. Until you receive word from your Heads stating otherwise, stay in your respective houses.” Removing the wand tip from his throat, the headmaster gravely glanced towards the seated professors in a bid for them to follow.

Those periwinkle eyes spared a moment to scan the crowd before landing firmly on Harri— the slightest tilt of his head the only indication that she was meant to come along as well.

Untangling herself from Hermione, much to the girl’s protests, Harri mouthed a quick ‘I’ll explain later’ before darting off— it was an upstream battle to make her way through the incoming throng of students.

‘Well,’ she thought grimly, letting out a frustrated groan as she pushed on the trophy room’s door, ‘there goes my bath.’

* * *

* * *

Slipping past the inconspicuous wooden door, Harri squirmed at the uncomfortable reminder of what had transpired at the beginning of the year. Flashes of her peers’ suspicious glares as she trudged shakily past the long rows of benches, of the way Dumbledore had looked at her in thinly-veiled disappointment, of the bitter accusations that she only put her name in for the promise of glory.

Tentatively stepping down the dimly-lit stairs into the cellar below, quarrelling snippets floated upwards, voices pinched with tension and blatant nerves. Pausing at the bottom, rather unsure of herself, Harri awkwardly cleared her throat as seven pairs of eyes simultaneously snapped to her slight form. They appeared mildly taken back by the sudden appearance and equally unsure of how to react. 

Out of everyone in the gathered half-circle, Dumbledore had been the first to recover by plastering on a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Harri, my dear girl. Please, sit.”

He motioned towards an empty chair across from his, the barely-hidden pessimism in his voice doing little to bolster confidence.

And if he was already this way— it didn't bode well.

Harri spared a glance over her shoulder towards the stairwell, a small part of herself wishing to return to the Great Hall— to leave behind the awkward tension and to seek out the comfort of her friends. But she had already made up her mind that this was important, that she needed to be here and to know what was going on. She couldn't afford otherwise. Not now.

A shaky sigh and unwilling feet carried her further into the room, sinking down into the offered seat. She had become all too aware that her movements were being tracked— an animal behind a glass case. The pity reflected so clearly in the eyes of the hovering adults set her on edge, teeth instinctively grinding at their misplaced sympathies. ‘At least Snape’s in character,’ the errant thought somewhat lessened the spiteful wariness, the potions master resolutely tossing her a sneer before turning away.

“I am afraid that these are grave times.”

Her attention retrained itself back to the headmaster, a stinging retort dancing on the tip of her tongue and a sharp acidity in her mouth.

How badly she wanted to say ‘No shit’ to him, to tell him in explicit detail what had happened in the graveyard when he, the man who solely existed to protect his students, failed so miserably in his only job. ‘Grave times doesn’t even cover it. Voldemort practically just declared war,’ a venomous inner monologue pointed out. 

She swallowed down the retaliation, resigning herself to a curt nod instead. As much as she would have loved to throw a tantrum, to act irritatingly pettish, to accuse Dumbledore of his missteps, she had enough awareness to understand that there was a time and place for it— after all, the headmaster may decide to shut down and remove her entirely from the conversation if he suspected her unable to handle it. And, as it currently stood, she knew that she just couldn’t stand being kept out of the loop this time around.

“Do you know whose voice that was, Harri?” Dumbledore questioned, fingers steepled in front of him as he leaned forward in the chair.

The way his eyes sparkled made Harri’s shoulders tense. It seemed as though he wanted to shock her with an answer she already had, as if he were wishing that she were completely clueless and was stumbling around in the dark until he saw fit to enlighten her. 

But of course she knew. 

She would be able to recognise that voice just about anywhere— it was far too imprinted on her memory at this point to be ignorant. After all, how many times had she heard it in her dreams since her second year? How many times since he had first appeared in the infirmary, the words ‘Soon, Harri. Be ready’ causing her to become unfocused throughout the day? For her adrenaline to randomly surge in anticipation that he just might appear out of thin air, ready to divine his vengeance? 

Attempting to keep her voice as level as she could, Harri lifted her gaze to meet the headmaster's evenly.

“Voldemort’s,” she stated as plainly as she could, hoping to portray the air of nonchalance she so desperately wished that she had— to embody some of the composure she was trying to fake.

She refused to show Dumbledore how much it had rattled her upon hearing that voice outside of her head for once. 

From somewhere behind her, several professors drew in sharp gasps to relay their disapproval at the casual usage of his name. But Harri considered that, out of everyone, she had the most right to it and was the most entitled to speak it aloud. After all, she was the one he was trying to kill— their connection, their tale, spanning the entirety of the blight of her existence. And she refused to use the ridiculous euphemism of ‘You-Know-Who’ after being subjected to such intimate bouts of violence from him.

On her periphery, Moody was shifting against the wall and looking strangely ill at ease by the turn of conversation. She wondered, idly, what he was nipping from his flask, the strangest idea crossing her mind to ask him for some. ‘I hope it’s firewhiskey. Merlin knows I could use it.’ 

“Unfortunately, you would be correct, my dear,” Dumbledore said.

The girl was about to say something else, to demand to know what they intended to do, how they were going to react, when the fireplace abruptly lit up with brilliant green flames.

Stepping forth from the ashes was a sight for sore eyes and Harri stubbornly refused to let the tears well up as the crackling fire dwindled.

One minute she had been seated and then the next, the teenager was launching herself at the man that had emerged from the flames, the faint smell of motor oil and cinnamon, an oddly comforting combination, rolling off him. “Sirius!”

“Harri! I came as soon as I could,” the older man responded apologetically, wrapping his arms around his goddaughter in a tight squeeze before stepping back to critically eye her.

“You’re looking pretty good, despite the tournament. Not a limb missing in sight.” He shot her a toothy grin and exaggerated his wince when she had playfully punched him in his bicep.

“If you two are finished,” a monotone voice abruptly drawled from the corner, breaking their reverie as Snape stepped into the light.

The professor had wrapped the black cloak tighter around his wiry frame, disapproval pinching his features in a clear sign of where his thoughts were heading— ‘Why does he have to be here?’ was practically written across his heavily lined forehead. Coal eyes danced in the residual glow of the fire, pinpoints of unearthly green flashing in their depths— Harri was faintly reminded of a bat-like demon.

“We were just discussing the urgent matter of the Dark Lord’s return,” Snape said, arching a brow. "So if you would mind refraining from your childish antics for just three seconds longer."

Sirius looked as though he wanted nothing more than to retort with something petty, to tell the potions professor to come down off of his high horse— he bit his tongue instead when he caught the warning look from his goddaughter. Shrugging off the leather jacket, he slumped down into the armchair angled towards the mantle.

“It wasn’t just Hogwarts that he broadcasted to. He managed to get his message into the Ministry and across pretty much every open channel in Britain. The slimy git,” Sirius reported dully, eyes glazing over for the briefest of a second as though his mind had turned distant. “It’s a complete mess out there.”

At the news that the school hadn’t been the only place to be affected, the quarrelling among the professors resumed in earnest— save for Snape whose hawk-like gaze was trained solely on Mad-Eye. The headmaster had to clear his throat several times before the room turned calm enough for him to get a word in otherwise.

“Regardless, the safety of our students should be of utmost importance. One in particular.” Dumbledore levelled his gaze on Harri, the girl entirely too busy staring in fascination at her teachers openly bickering. “I know it’s earlier than you would have liked but I believe it is prudent for you to leave as soon as possible.”

At that, Harri blinked owlishly. 

'Leave Hogwarts? Right now?’ It was a bewildering notion considering she still had almost a week left within its halls, hadn’t even gotten her exam results back yet— hadn’t packed or gone through the usual list of goodbye routines. If she was to leave early, then she wouldn’t have the time to get Hedwig’s care in order for Hagrid, wouldn’t be able to visit Hogsmeade one last time to stock up on emergency rations for the summer— wouldn’t be able to make plans with Hermione and Ron to meet up at the Burrow during the latter half of the holidays.

With knitted brows, tongue heavy and fumbling, she managed to ask. “Where to?”

But then the strangest idea overcame her, a flicker of hope as a green-eyed gaze slid over to her godfather. ‘Does he mean with Sirius?’ It certainly was a delightful prospect, one that made her want to sing, to cry out in unbridled joy. No more Dursleys—her summers free from weeding her aunt’s dreadful garden, from the endless lists of chores. Unhampered by torment and unkind hands, by cleaning chemicals that made her nose sting and a too-small bedroom with a barred window impossible to open. Judging by her godfather's expression, he seemed to be just as optimistic, as eager and all too ready to say ‘yes’ the second Dumbledore would ask. 

And, after all, staying with another wizard, one who could freely use magic without the limitations of the Trace, only made sense when a Dark Lord was suddenly at large.

“We need to get you back within the safety of the blood wards.” 

Her hope went down in flames, a pit settling in her stomach and a lump clawing its way up her throat.

“Hogwarts is no longer safe at the moment, Tom has proven that tonight. Your best chance would be with those who can camouflage you," the headmaster explained. 

Silence followed the proclamation— and then arguing erupted, a cacophony of voices overlapping with one another. The loudest was that of the transfiguration professor, spitting and hissing as though she were currently in her animagus form rather than her human skin.

McGonagall lept from her chair, the piece of furniture wobbling precariously at the sudden upset, eyes bright as her accent bled into a Scottish drawl. “Albus! Surely you can’t be serious, sending her back to those— those _muggles_!”

Harri found herself, reluctantly, having to give Dumbledore credit where it was due upon seeing how relaxed he was in the face of an unbridled and furious Minerva McGonagall. The headmaster hadn’t even so much as flinched at the flared temper or the abruptness of her movements. And even though she knew, logically, that the anger wasn’t directed towards her, she still found herself shrinking further back into the safety of the armchair. In all of her years spent in her classes, in having her as her Head of House, never once had she seen the woman this upset. Part of her found it touching to see her professor so adamantly defending her, so vehemently protesting on her behalf— an unwavering show of loyalty.

‘Though, we all know who’s going to win in the end,’ a bitter thought, an irrefutable truth in the statement. Nervously, emerald eyes flitted between the two, a morbid curiosity to see how Dumbledore would react to such an outward display of defiance.

“Minerva,” Dumbledore stated calmly, “I understand your concern but Harri will be far safer behind the wards than she will be here.”

He spared a glance over to Sirius, head dipping apologetically at the man’s crestfallen expression. “Or with her godfather.”

An awkward silence stretched between the occupants littering about the trophy room, their minds distant as they tried to figure out their own plans and what to tell their students. 

Harri let her attention shift down in the lull of conversation, her fingers interlaced as a thumb rubbed pressured circles on the opposite's palm. A nervous habit that she never seemed to fully break herself of.

“When.” She attempted to swallow around the lump in a dry throat, trying not to show her disappointment at how easily Sirius bowed to Dumbledore’s whim without so much as a fight—or that she’d have to spend more time at the Dursley’s than expected. “When should I leave?”

The headmaster’s eyes glinted knowingly and he gave a subdued sigh, leaning back in contemplation as though he hadn’t already made up his mind regarding her departure. “Tonight, Harri. It is for the best, I hope you can understand. The rest of the student body will soon follow.”

Pale eyes flickered with grave seriousness as they darted about the somber faces in front of him, clearing his throat. “She’ll need someone to take her.”

Moody suddenly spoke up from the corner of the room, tongue darting to the corners of his chapped lips. “I’ll do it. Best to ‘ave someone used to dark wizards for this.”

He sent a resolute nod towards Harri, the single good eye fixed determinedly on her— a shock of electric blue against a sea of white.

And she was unsure if he was always this intense, her time around the man having been limited to preparation for the competition that was, by default, already high-stakes. But the energy coming from him, his eagerness, felt off. She looked down at the wiry muscles of her forearms, the cream-coloured skin prickled with goosebumps.

“Perhaps,” Snape suddenly interjected, coming to stand next to Mad-Eye as his hands folded together— a jump of muscle above his brow.

Harri blinked in mild surprise, never quite realising how tall the dark-cloaked wizard was until he towered over the auror—a looming wraith of a man.

“It would be in Potter’s best interest to have two wizards to accompany her. Just. In. Case,” Severus punctuated the last portion of his sentence, sending a meaningful glance over at the scarred wizard by his side.

Harri hungrily clung to the interaction, desperately trying to decipher what it could have possibly meant. For the briefest second, she could have sworn that Mad-Eye glared back, looking like he wanted nothing more than to curse the potions master within an inch of his life.

Dumbledore picked a stray thread off of his buttercream yellow robes before clapping his hands in finality. “It’s decided then. Harri, my dear girl, pack your things if you would please. And Sirius, I will need a full report as to what is happening.”


	5. He Always Has To Ruin Things, Doesn't He?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of this chapter, there's also short POV from Voldemort's perspective. Starting in the next few chapters or so, there'll be more of him to come so let me know if you like how his section is written! (I'm still toying around a bit with how I want to write him). 
> 
> A bit of canon divergence but Sirius is still alive in this and has been pardoned by the Ministry. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and for all of the love you guys have shown the story so far! 💕

* * *

* * *

Harri had left the trophy room in a foul mood and intent on making someone feel just as terribly as she did— to let the entire world know of her frustrations and plight.

The vaulted halls were emptied, devoid of the usual signs of life, and the ensuing silence only served as dry kindling to her anger. ‘It’s like he’s punishing me for something that's not even my fault,’ her thoughts were resentful, carrying a bite as disinclined feet marched up the stone steps. And while she knew Dumbledore was only acting in her best interest, rationality attempting to jump to the headmaster's defense, it was hard to think of this all in less than personal terms. After all, he was making her leave Hogwarts and was forcing her to go back to the one place that she had constantly begged to be spared of. 

Plus, it was difficult to see the sense in condemning her to a purgatory where she couldn't even rely on magic should anything go awry— and Dumbledore would have to forgive her if she didn't fully trust something as simple as 'blood wards' in being effective at keeping the Dark Lord out.

Hermione and Ron were seated on the couch in front of the fire, heads huddled together as they exchanged low, contemplative whispers. Most of their housemates had decided to wander back up to the dorms, unsure of what else to do— but they had stayed behind to dutifully wait.

When the portrait door swung open, they glanced up in alarm to see the thunderous expression on Harri’s face, her burning gaze fixed unseeingly ahead.

"Harri?" Hermione called tentatively, twisting among the pillows when the girl had stormed past them without acknowledgement.

"Harri?!" 

When she still hadn't responded to the second call, it was Hermione first who had uneasily lept from her spot to trail after the girl— Ron followed suit. A nervous look was shared between them when Harri had yanked the bedroom door open with more force than necessary— the hinges creaked as the wood banged dully against the wall.

A well of irritation was bubbling inside of her chest, a writhing sort of anger that had her fingers twitching with the need to hold something— and just _smash_ it. It was only belatedly that Harri had noticed the tensed quiet, Lavender, mercifully, absent from the dorm. And just on her periphery, she could see the pair of her friends hovering in the threshold, all too ready to flee should the need arise.

Of course, it was impossible to blame them— to fault their twin looks of apprehension, the way they were nonverbally daring the other to speak first. After all, Harri was entirely too self-aware that her temper could be a wretched ordeal— a bestial thing that was difficult to tame once unleashed. And a part of her considered that they were blessed souls for even wanting to provide comfort whenever those little moments eclipsed her control— when all she truly desired was to induce suffering. 

Chaos. 

Destruction. 

But yet, even armed with that understanding, it still irked her how they consciously lingered back. How they were looking for the nearest fire exit and treating her as though she were a ticking bomb laid at their feet.

The trio ended up settling into a prolonged silence that was only punctuated by Harri aggressively shoving her belongings into a worn trunk. Somehow, the act of throwing things, of carelessly tossing clothes about without any consideration if they ended up wrinkled, was a soothing enough balm— free therapy in all sense of the word.

“Mate, you okay?” Ron finally questioned from the bed, his legs tucked under himself as he nervously tracked the girl's disorderly movements about the room.

Harri paused midstep, opening her mouth to respond— to snap out that no, she was far from being 'okay'.

She closed it instead with an audible snap when tears stung the back of her throat— that creeping pocket of air that made it difficult to swallow. The concerned faces of her two best friends started to warp, to obscure and melt away. ‘It isn’t fair,’ a sullen thought. And it wasn’t that she was upset with having to, eventually, return to the Dursley’s home— no, she was far too used to that disappointment. It had been her very own limbo for as long as she could remember— her purgatory until the next school year could begin. But it was more so the fact that her freedom was being snatched away so quickly, like smoke curling away before her very eyes as she rushed to capture it in a jar. A list appeared in her mind’s eye of all the things that she had still wanted to do during the remaining week— all the things she wanted to accomplish and the memories that needed to be made to tide her over for the long summer months ahead. 

But now? 

Now, it was all pointless. 

Stubbornly swiping the back of her hand across her eyes, she managed to rush out, “I’m fine. I’m leaving tonight for the Dursley’s. You’ll follow soon too, I imagine.”

She shoved the Weasley knit jumper into the trunk, an oversized thing made from rust coloured wool— a fond memory of her very first Christmas present. Harri eyed it resting haphazardly on the top layer of her clothes, a twist of longing seizing her heart as reality sank in. Instead of going to the Burrow, a place of warmth, of late nights with hot cocoa and stargazing, of bustling mornings and home-cooked meals, she would be returning to her aunt’s sterile house. Too pink and too unfriendly, a place where anything freakish was hidden under lock and key and never to be discussed or permitted. 

An extra 6 whole days— almost an entire week added to her sentence.

“Oh,” Ron muttered, glancing over to Hermione in uncertainty. 

At a loss for words, he could only watch as the redhead closed her trunk with a final snap, her face collapsing inwards with defeat.

“I almost got to stay with Sirius,” she muttered, more so to herself than to them, eyes tracing over the worn brass-lock of the school trunk in an attempt to distract herself from the hollow ache. “But he just had to ruin that too, didn’t he?”

* * *

* * *

The last hour of her 5th-year ended in a blur of goodbyes.

She remembered hugging her friends and wishing for them to stay safe while Ron promised that she would come to the Burrow the minute Dumbledore had deemed it to be okay. Something, she considered, that would never happen. The headmaster had been reluctant enough to let her leave when things had been good. But now with Voldemort lurking about? The chances were next to zero and nonexistent— far too slim to even count on. 

But mostly, she recalled clinging to Sirius, refusing to let go. Harri obsessively replayed her godfather’s vow over in her head that he would visit, her lifevest amidst a tumultuous storm, the barest flicker of hope— ‘ _Dark Lords be damned.’_

She knew that promise was probably never going to come to fruition either.

Because, as she stood shivering from the misty night on the Dursley’s front doorstep, Snape hovering insistently at her shoulder, it all seemed like a lie. ‘You know it is,’ a voice whispered morosely as she pressed the doorbell. ‘None of that is ever going to happen.’ Instead, she was to be banished—exiled to a life of servitude until it was deemed she had attained enough atonement to warrant her salvation.

Vernon Dursley had been the one to open the front door with an agitated huff, already claiming some nonsense about refusing to buy their papers or whatever they were attempting to peddle.

However, when he saw Harri Potter standing on his ‘welcome mat’ in the late spring fog, he nearly had a heart attack. By all accounts, this was not what he had envisioned for their relaxing evening— it was supposed to be a night of packing before their flight in the morning. One passed by with a few episodes of their favourite English soap opera and microwaved tv dinners before tottering off early to bed. Having his wife’s niece suddenly appear out of thin air, drenched and sullen, went against every carefully laid out plan he had concocted. An unexpected hiccup.

The man’s mouth gaped unattractively as he floundered for words, the flab around his jowls quaking with the effort. 

Petunia appeared at his side a moment later, thin brows drawn together.

And Harri couldn’t quite help the grimace as her aunt’s expression morphed from shock to pure rage, hateful eyes taking in the wizards loitering about her perfectly manicured front lawn. It was a look that screamed there were to be consequences later. 'Wonderful.'

“What is the meaning of this?!” Mrs. Dursley hissed out.

Wiry fingers reached up to clutch at the door, pushing it slightly inwards to limit their view into the pastel pink living room. The thin-necked woman towered over her husband, Petunia's knobby knees locked as though she were a sentinel of the threshold— a silent refusal to allow the wizards to pass and defile the sanctity of her home.

The cacophony of laughter from the vintage tv set drifted out, muted and distant— a testament that they were disturbing a quaint, domestic scene. 

Harri shifted awkwardly.

“How lovely to see you again, Petunia,” Snape drawled, a single brow arched at her obvious discomfort. “There has been a breach at Hogwarts. Potter is being returned early as such.”

Petunia's lips pursed, shrewd eyes narrowing at the term 'breach'. 

Harri half-twisted to fix the professor with a mutinous glare, indignant at the way he had referred to her as though she were an unwanted pet or a piece of lost property being returned. But, then again, if the Dursleys would refuse to let her in, perhaps she would have no choice but to go to Grimmauld Place? It wouldn’t be quite out of her aunt’s character to flat out refuse, to turn her away with a sniff of her upturned nose. In fact, it was almost a miracle that the woman had yet to do so— or that she had tolerated her niece's presence for 15 long years already. ‘Might as well let it play out,’ she thought, the words holding a bite as she toed the concrete steps with worn sneakers. A downturned gaze idly tracked the path of an ant crawling over the side and into the shrubbery.

“No—absolutely not! No, no, no, we refuse!” Vernon had finally regained his ability to speak, spittle flying as his face turned an ugly, and frankly alarming, shade of purple. “We agreed to house her for the summer, which starts _next_ week mind you, and not a moment longer! We will not tolerate her _freakishness_ ruining our vacation plans!”

Her face heated up of its own accord in the wake of his adamant denial, a mortified shame flooding through her. Green eyes refused to lift from the front steps, acid on the tip of her tongue and just begging to be spewed. ‘Don’t. You’ll only make things worse,’ reason cautioned, the little voice in her that always seemed to arise whenever faced with the darkening waves of her displeasure. 

Of course, it was right. 

After all, speaking out against the Dursleys, her uncle in particular, typically manifested in lasting reminders— usually in the form of blooming impressions across her skin and a hollow ache in her stomach. Harri figured it was best not to rock the boat too early, especially so since her time around the muggles had just grown by an extra week.

And it wasn’t that she was personally offended by the rejection from her so-called ‘family’— oh no, she was plenty used to that by now. But it was more so the fact that they were openly revealing to complete strangers about how much they despised their adopted charge— how much of a burden she was in their lives. That they were just being so public in their distaste, her private shame broadcasted in front of not one, but _two_ , of her professors. That they were confirming she was, by all accounts, a plague and a scourge. A curse— unlovable.

There was a blur of movement and then Mad-Eye was on the doorstep before anyone could think to move, his wand out in a tight grip as the magical eye whirred with a grating sound.

In spite of being as stooped as he was, the professor still towered over Vernon, the grisly sight of his scarred face making the muggle man blanch. Harri couldn’t actually ever recall seeing him so pale, the usual blotchiness drained from his fattened cheeks and beady eyes wide with terror. 

“I’d suggest, Mr. Dursley, for your own wellbeing, that you let Miss Potter into the house,” Moody said.

His usually gruff Scottish accent had begun to bleed into a posh British one, a far cry from the rough exterior that Harri had come to expect from him.

Images of McGonagall came to mind, how her typical prim inflections gave rise to a rugged drawl in the wake of her anger. An amusing thought crossed her mind that Alastor Moody was the exact opposite to the woman in that regard.

Harri looked over to Snape, wondering if he would intervene. The man was blissfully ignoring the entire interaction in favour of eyeing Petunia’s honeysuckle, lips pursed in deliberation. Apparently, he was more than content to do nothing, choosing, instead, to pinch a few of the budding ivory flowers and dropping them into a glass vial that had been fished out from his robes. ‘Well, if he’s not stopping it,’ a wistful thought as she turned back to watch her uncle being cowed into submission, perhaps finding just a tad too much enjoyment, too much satisfaction, at the sight.

“And you’d do well to remember, Vernon, that we are always watching.” As Mad-Eye stepped back from crowding the muggle, he sent her a quick wink and a rueful grin.

If asked about it later, Harri could have sworn that she saw patches of sandy-brown hair peeking through his normally blonde roots— that the lines thatching his face weren’t as heavy or as engraved into the freckled skin. But as he took a hurried nip from the flask and the brown streaks altogether disappeared, she could only attribute it to seeing things. An illusion played on her eyes by the dim lighting of the lone street lamp at the end of the sidewalk.

And then she was ushered inside before she could even blink.

Shoved past her quivering uncle and petrified aunt, a dumbstruck glance was spared over her shoulder just in time to see the two wizards apparate away from Privet Drive.

Harri stood there for a second, hovering in the narrow foyer, a longing, a yearning, gnawing the inside of her chest raw. How badly she wanted to scream into the night for them to come back, to take her away with them— to not leave her alone among the muggles. To not keep her away from magic, from her friends. From the world she had come to love more than anything else. But she figured it would have been pointless— the pair were already gone, their bodies melted away to become one with the encroaching mist.

Dejectedly closing the front door, the girl watched impassively as her relatives tottered off down the hall, still reeling from the threats.

* * *

* * *

A blink and an agitated sigh, Harri set herself to the impossible task of wrestling her luggage up the steep staircase and resigning herself to the tender mercies of the Dursleys once again. Kicking open the door to the spare bedroom, noting critically how the spartan space hadn’t been touched since she had left last fall, she made a note to clean later. 

Dust was heavy about the furniture, the air stale and the linens on the bed unturned. ‘I’ll be 17 soon and then the blood wards can be damned. I won’t ever have to come back,’ a resentful thought as she tried to find the light in her situation, the bright spot that could make this summer just a touch more bearable.

Roughly shoving the trunks into the room, noting how much space they occupied on the floor, Harri found herself, not for the first time, wishing desperately for her dorm. It was a depressing thought, a dismaying one, to realise that she had been in her four postered bed just last night. 

But now?

Now, she was back in her own personal hell. 

She had been attempting her best to skirt around the pile of scattered luggage to open the window— the iron bars still firmly attached to the sill— when something gave her pause. There was the queerest feeling of the air shifting behind her, a feat that should have been impossible considering how stifling and stagnant it was without the cross breeze. Of its own accord, the tempo of her pulse quickened, a hammering in her chest as she felt the thrum deep within her bones— _magic_.

_“Just a little while longer, Harri. Be patient.”_

The lines of her body went taut, a high strung tension at her core as a pair of lips brushed against the shell of her ear— they mimed the phantom words. There was an insistent press of hands about her shoulders, a settling and firm weight. Emerald eyes widened in disbelief at the familiar voice, at the timber and accent, and she whirled on the spot out of some irrational fear that he had managed to slip past the wards.

When an empty space greeted her in turn, no demon breathing down her neck and demanding more of her blood until it was sated, Harri nearly collapsed in relief. ‘Well, what did you expect? You've barely been sleeping and your poor mind is probably exhausted.’ There it was again— a chastising inner monologue that suspiciously sounded quite a bit like Hermione.

Groaning, thin hands went up to scrub her face, trying to lean into that reasoning to calm down— after all, sleep deprivation was known to cause hallucinations, and, considering what had happened earlier that evening, it shouldn’t be a surprise that she heard _his_ voice. ‘Merlin, I’m a mess.’

Slumping down onto the twin mattress, a creak of springs groaning under an unexpected weight, she warily watched the bedroom door until her pulse finally settled into a more comfortable rhythm. ‘Of course, he’s not here. That’s the whole point of the stupid blood wards. Honestly, Harri.'

The pull of sleep was turning insistent, difficult to ignore as she finally had a chance to sit down— to have a moment of quiet. Unable to stifle a yawn, the girl collapsed onto the single pillow, its stuffing long flattened and sparse, resigning herself to taking a shower in the morning. 

What she had failed to notice, however, as she drifted off were the pair of crimson eyes flickering in the shattered hand mirror on the desk.

* * *

* * *

Hundreds of miles away, and on the other end of Britain, a wraith of a man sat in a candle-lit study. The dancing shadows and crackling fire were his companions— a foreboding ambience lent to the room that befitted its master.

On the oak desk were an assortment of rather peculiar-looking objects lined up in a symmetrical row. Upon a first glance, one might have mistaken them for family heirlooms— sentimental items from eras long since passed.

A gold ring with a carved black diamond at its center, an odd symbol engraved into the gem’s heart.

A locket inlaid with an impressive amount of emeralds and the shape of a rearing snake behind a cut crystal dome.

A goblet gleaming in polished gold, the impression of a badger stamped into the metal.

A finely crafted silver hairpiece, the outer edges shaped to mimic a bird’s wings with a sapphire set into the middle.

Crimson eyes obsessively scanned the row, the feeling of hunger, of unwavering greed, a constant motif whenever he looked upon them. It was an incomplete set, one having been destroyed in his absence whereas the other, having been unaware of its existence, was being forcefully kept from him— not that it mattered. 

He would remedy that soon enough.

Voldemort reached for the ring, twirling and twisting it between nimble fingers as he contemplated his current predicament, slitted eyes glazing over.

His newly-found horcrux was proving to be quite an issue. An insurmountable challenge. For one, she was his ‘prophesied’ enemy, his supposed downfall, and the target of his wrath for many years. Undoubtedly, the girl would have a hard time forgiving him for that slight— and Merlin only knew that she had a nasty habit of continuously getting under his skin. And though he, typically, wouldn’t readily admit to his faults, he was entirely aware that his reputation wasn’t one exactly marked by patience or leniency.

For another, she was human— a contradiction in her very existence. She wasn’t inanimate like the other vessels housing his soul. She was living. Breathing. A brash little thing with thoughts and magic of her own. 

Recollections of Harri flashed through his mind— the way she had moved in the graveyard, the defiance in her eyes when he had appeared in the infirmary. The shock of her magic, it’s signature so very close to his.

Yes, she was a puzzle that he couldn’t quite figure out, an oddity that should have never been allowed to transpire by nature’s very laws. 

How much of her was his and how much of herself was her own? 

Where did his soul begin and hers end?

The obscured vision of a locket came back into view, startling in its clarity as he latched onto it.

The material containers, while they would sometimes respond to him, weren’t like her. They didn’t have their own constant train of thought or endlessly bright bursts of emotion— those distracting eruptions on the edges of his awareness that, sometimes, caught him off guard in their intensity. 

“She is certainly a loud little thing,” he mused, having felt her earlier ire and fear as clearly as though they were his own.

Even now, as he reached tentatively through their bond, he could feel her erratic heartbeat as a second pulse— her troubled thoughts twisting around his own, how she was turning in her bed and ill at ease. It would appear that she was having a nightmare, a pull in his stomach that urged him to go to her. To ensure her safety, to ascertain it was only a dream and nothing more. 

It was a damning instinct, one that, he hoped, would lessen once they were in closer proximity.

His grip tightened on the ring as he reached for the glass of amber liquid. “She will have to learn Occlumency for both of our sakes.”

Taking a small sip, barely registering the burn as it slipped down his throat, scarlet eyes strayed to the fire. The flickering embers at the bottom, faintly, reminded him of her hair and the way it had been, somehow, just as bright under the moonlight. 

And the more he reflected on it, the more aware he became that he held an aesthetic attraction towards the girl.

Swirling the glass in his hand in contemplation, he summoned her to appear in his mind’s eye. Pale skin and a heart-shaped face. High cheekbones, a slight but shapely enough form. Her red hair, a pleasing shade of auburn that was entirely too rich in colouration, lips a rosy shade that suited her complexion. And her eyes— that killing curse green that betrayed her not-entirely human nature, their vividness as unnatural as his own.

Voldemort downed the last dregs of scotch in the glass, finding no shame in such an assessment of her. He had always coveted beautiful objects, as evident by what he had chosen to be the original containers for his soul, and she was no exception. His eyes darkened at the thought of what she would look like when fully grown, entirely all too pleased with his soul for picking someone that would be on par with him. Somehow, he could already imagine her next to him, light where he was dark, existing as a worthy contrast to stand at his side. 

Well, his old self anyways.

He set down the crystal tumbler onto the desk and slid the ring onto his finger. It was no matter— he would regain that form soon enough as it stood. 

Thin lips pressed into a grim line at the thought of the task before him, an impossible, Herculean one that he would only have a summer to complete. But it was vital that he regained his old appearance— not just for the sake of coaxing her to his side but for his future plans as well. It had been a mistake on his end, an erring oversight to the ritual, that led him to emerge from the cauldron in this form. And as much as he normally wouldn’t have cared about his appearance, would have been more than content to remain a monster among mortals, she would never be comfortable around him. Not if he continued to look more like a serpent than a man. After all, try as she may to deny it, her reaction upon seeing the glamour of Tom Riddle was telling enough— she was attracted to the allure his younger self possessed.

The door suddenly creaked open. 

Drawing him from his introspection, his familiar slithered in, the flat triangular head lifting as she flicked her tongue curiously.

 _"What are you thinking about?”_ she inquired, winding her way up the back of his chair.

He reached back to absentmindedly stroke the smoothness of her scales, the sibilance of parseltongue a second nature to him. _“That we have quite a bit to do, my dear one.”_

With a wave of his hand, the horcruxes lined along the desk hovered in the air before disappearing. _“Come, Nagini. There are preparations to be made before the night is up.”_


	6. Back From The Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys can bear with me a tad longer— I had the wand scene come to me and just had to include it lol. As a heads up, there's also a mild torture scene when it first switches to Voldemort's perspective— feel free to skip it! You won't miss much other than Voldemort being possessive as usual. 
> 
> On a side note, thank you everyone for your love and for the comments! It really has made my day seeing them when I log on 💕
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

* * *

Time stretched on slowly, languid from the stifling humidity of the mainland’s summer and, as the 4th week of her vacation approached, Harri wondered if it would ever end.

Currently, the girl was sprawled out on the backyard’s lawn, the grass blunt with new growth from being mowed a few days prior, and sheltered in the waning shade of the lone maple tree. It had become a habit of hers to seek refuge outdoors whenever her thoughts were heavy, troubled. With the chirps of cicadas in the foreground to provide a lulling hum, The Girl Who Lived contemplated the confusing mess that was her existence.

In all sense of the word, her break had been quiet. And while that should have calmed her, given her some much-needed rest from the chaos of the wizarding world, it had the profoundly opposite effect. There had been no news. No letters from friends, no visits from Sirius. 

Just— _quiet_.

It was as though everyone had been determined to cut her off entirely, an irrational part wondering, fretting, if she did something to upset them— if they were finally fed up with her antics and ready to toss her aside. The thought squirmed inside of her, persistent in burrowing into her heart until it was all she could focus on. Obsessively, Harri replayed over her last interactions with them, desperate to find any warning signs of their commitment to their friendship waning. But, try as she did, she could find none. 

In fact, they had been as warm as always in their departure hugs— had even sat with her during her foul mood to assure her that she was still welcomed at the Burrow. There was no forthcoming reason for their radio silence, for them to ignore her like this.

Lifting a heavy arm off the ground, she draped it across her eyes, the dampness gathering on the low back of her tank top an uncomfortable sensation.

Much to her bitter disappointment, it turned out to be cooler outside than inside. The Dursleys were firm in their refusal to turn on the air conditioner when they weren’t home and she didn’t feel like testing to see if there was any truth in Vernon’s statement that he would know if she touched it. ‘But at least they’re gone.’ There was some solace to be found in that little win. Ever since Mad-Eye threatened them, the muggles were, blessedly, absent from Privet Drive more often than not. 

Currently, they had disappeared off to a resort somewhere in Mexico, reluctantly leaving the home in their niece’s care for another week or so.

A heavy groan and Harri hauled herself into a sitting position, knowing she should probably put her free time to good use while she had it. Plus, with her dear old aunt and uncle gone, their shrewd gazes far removed, it was the perfect chance to get a jumpstart on next year’s material.

Though she may not have loved learning and reading as much as Hermione, even she could appreciate being productive when one had nothing else to do— and her free time was something of abundance as of late. It had been all too easy to uncover where Vernon kept the key to the locked cupboard that held her wand and school supplies— a precaution on their end ever since she had accidentally inflated Marge in her 3rd year. Of course, hiding her wand wouldn’t prevent her from accessing her powers— but the explanation on the difference between ‘accidental’ and ‘purposeful’ magic had gone entirely over their heads. Their firm position was that any and all usage was inherently wrong.

Absentmindedly humming, a tuneless sort of song, she thumbed through the textbook resting in her lap.

“Ex-pul-so,” Harri muttered, eyes scanning over the page as she intently studied the diagram and decidedly ignoring the section where it labelled the spell as a curse. “Doesn’t seem too difficult.”

Reaching for her wand, the girl went through the wrist movements while refraining from speaking aloud the incantation. ‘As long as I don’t actually _do_ magic, the Ministry can't complain.’ Admittedly, the thought did inspire a good deal of cynicism and bitterness— why did she have to be restricted from using her powers for an entire summer? To ignore her birthright? But of course, she knew, deep down, that it did make sense— after all, if one used magic at the Burrow, it would be normal. Doing so here, however, might induce a heart attack in some of her aunt’s more religious and conservative neighbours. ‘And wouldn’t that just be grand,’ Harri snorted, thinking back to how the Ministry wanted to expel her for pumping Marge full of hot air— she shuddered to think what would happen if, in a roundabout way, she had been the cause for a muggle’s death. 

‘Probably Azkaban,’ a small voice contributed— it did little to quell her nerves.

Attempting to chase away the grim thoughts, Harri redirected her focus back to the textbook.

A few moments passed before a frustrated groan joined the hum of the cicadas. The wrist movement wasn't as fluid as she would like, the weight distribution entirely off. Glaring at the wand, a sense of resentment and longing flourished in her chest— she tossed it down onto the grass. Her original had been lost in the graveyard, dropped in her struggle to break free from the statue, and she had been trying to make do with a replacement ever since. 

'But it's all wrong.' Harri frowned as she critically eyed the dark wood resting innocently in a patch of dandelions.

It was too light and the handle not as pronounced or comforting to hold— and it only half-listened at the best of times. Ollivander had struggled to find her a match that would be suitable enough— walnut, 10 inches, dragon heartstring core. Yet, even with the wandmaker's expertise, she felt empty holding it. Incomplete— as though it were an ordinary stick and nothing more. He did warn that might be the case, claiming her bond with the holly wand was unparalleled— 'true twin flames' Ollivander had declared with a pitying look.

But such a bond had been lost— and now she was paying the price.

Emerald eyes drifted up to a passing cloud, trying absentmindedly to make a shape out of its blurred, undefined edges. It was the only one in sight— a loner in an endless sea of bright blue. Unable to help herself, all thought became consumed in pondering where her true match had gotten off to— if someone had picked it up after she fled or if it was left to rot among the crumbling tombstones. 

She didn't know which she was hoping for. 

* * *

* * *

Fate is, undeniably, a fickle thing and tends to have a rather interesting, or sick depending on who you ask, sense of humour.

As it so happens, the wand in question had found its way into the possession of a certain Dark Lord, having been picked up in the graveyard several months ago.

It was a physical reminder, an assurance, that the girl had once been in his grasp. He figured she would come for it eventually, would feel its absence as a hollow ache and be driven onwards by a need to reclaim it. And when his little horcrux finally would reappear, Voldemort had no intention of relinquishing her, of letting her slip by once again.

After all, she was safest by his side.

Safest where he could watch her, protect her, ensure that no ill could ever befall her— she was too precious to be left to her own devices amidst a world that would so eagerly destroy and grind her into dust. 

Too precious and too rare for such an unfortunate end.

Crimson eyes ran along the length of the polished dark wood in rapt attention, soaking in every detail, every notch, every grain pattern. Elongated hands, shapely fingers more suited to an aristocratic life, one of pampering and less of toil, trailed over its handle lovingly— a worshipful touch. It was _hers_ , he knew it without a doubt. Not just for the fact that she had dropped it but for the fact he could _feel_ it. The thrum of magic, her signature so like his own, unrestrained and existing as bright spots in his mind. It felt like an old friend in his grip, greeting him as though _he_ were its long lost companion— a bittersweet reunion.

And oh— wasn’t this a surprise. 

A revelation dawned across a serpentine face, a lipless mouth cracking into a predatory smile. ‘A brother wand to my very own— a phoenix core.’ He could very nearly laugh at the absurdity of it— at how Fate truly made her into his image. It wasn’t enough that she housed his soul, oh no. They had to share wand cores in addition to magic. She was truly, undeniably, irrefutably his in every single, damnable way. An idle thought crossed his mind pondering, once again, how much of the girl was his versus how much she was her own. 

Interrupting his musings was a grating moan and his gaze reluctantly drifted over to the body lying prone at his bare feet. 

At some point, the man had bitten his tongue while under the Cruciatus, the froth spilling from his mouth tinged by a brilliant, scarlet hue.

“Ah, Scrimgeour. I must confess myself distracted. I had forgotten you were even here,” Voldemort said with a degree of amusement.

He rose from the carved throne, Harri’s wand still clutched in his grasp.

Stepping over a puddle of bile, the Dark Lord assessed with detached interest the poor state the Minister was in. The crossed lacerations were freely bleeding and wetting his torso in rivers, the bloody fingernails worn down to stumps, torn and jagged, as he had clawed at his own skin and the marble floors in search of relief. Voldemort sneered disdainfully, the man’s spine weak and mind fractured— how quickly had he had fallen under torture, had relinquished his position of power after not even ten minutes of exposure to the curse. ‘Pathetic.’

For the most part, the parlour was still, quiet— a weighty hush punctuated by a sporadic groan every now and then. Having long lost the ability to scream, or to formulate a coherent sentence, only Scrimgeour’s muted gasps relayed the pain he was in.

Voldemort hovered over the Minister, a barefoot shooting out to force the man’s head to turn towards him. A warped sense of triumph thrived within the cavity of his chest, the spaces between his ribs, in seeing the light dim from the wizard’s eyes.

In a mock show of sympathy, the Dark Lord clicked his tongue. “What a shame, Rufus, to only have lasted a term in office.”

A burst of mad laughter suddenly shattered the quiet of the throne room at the comment and Voldemort glanced up to take in Bellatrix’s dishevelled appearance— he had, seemingly, also forgotten about the witch’s presence. 

Two weeks prior had found the woman still rotting in Azkaban— an oversight he had been quick to remedy. Freedom had done wonders for her in such a short amount of time, years of neglect easily reversing in the wake of regular baths and decent meals. Her frame, once reduced to bordering on the skeletal, had begun to finally fill back out, shapely curves making their reappearance. But what he enjoyed most about loyal Bella, had been drawn to all those years ago when she courted to join his ranks, were those coal eyes—the way they shone in admiration whenever they landed upon him or the perverse delight that sparked them to life as she performed an Unforgivable.

It was the look that glittered in them now that he found so enjoyable— the same, twisted glee that most were quick to label as 'insanity'. 

The witch had raised her wand, as warped as she was, the thrill of dark magic coursing through her veins urging her to chase the next high— to ride out another wave and succumb after 15 long years of being denied.

He held a hand out in a nonverbal command for her to stop. “That is quite enough, Bella. I can not begrudge Nagini her meal any longer.”

A whimper, either out of being denied or at being reprimanded—or perhaps both— escaped her. 

An entirely pitiful sound.

Crimson eyes slid over to her, taking note of the shaking in her shoulders, the quivering of her lower lip— it almost looked as if she was about to protest even though he knew she would never dare. But he understood, of course. It was difficult to come back from the edge after free-falling, after experiencing that consuming high from casting such magic.

Upon seeing her wand still raised, a slitted gaze narrowed a fraction— a silent warning of what would await her if she didn't obey and cede to the command.

A blink, then two. Apologetic shock pinched her expression as she hastily dipped her head and scrambled back a few steps.

Voldemort had been about to summon his own wand to end the Minister's life, to get rid of the first obstacle in his ultimate goal, when a depraved thought crossed his mind— an insistent yearning, a sharpening desire. A compulsive wish.

He looked down to the holly wand still in his palm, scarlet eyes darkening in their contemplation. How innocent it was— how uncorrupted it felt in his grasp. Never before had it known dark magic nor had been tainted in the way he wished to do to her. Truly, it was a perverse thing to hold something so pure while knowing the power he held over its fate. Most wizards would consider it damning, and far more than an offending slight, to utilise another’s wand in such a way— but if she belonged to him, did the holly not as well? A spark of undying curiosity, something singing in his chest to find out.

Slowly raising it, he pointed it towards Scrimgeour’s minutely twitching body— a depraved sense of contentment burrowed in his chest at the way the wand had begun to hum.

“Avada Kedavra,” a soft incantation. 

He wasn't entirely surprised to feel some resistance to the order.

But as the Dark Lord pushed his will, his intent, his magic, into the wand, he could feel that initial opposition begin to crumble, the fight ebbing away. 

Vivid green light shot forth from the tip, flooding the room with its blinding glow— the Minister of Magic seized for one last time.

And then everything went still. 

A vacuum of quiet filled only with his laboured, shallow breaths as red eyes widened over the feat he had just accomplished. Her wand had listened to _him_ , the warmth radiating from it a physical reminder that it hadn’t rejected him, hadn’t spurned him. Undivided attention fixated on the heated holly held in a cradle of long fingers— a brief flash of wonder and triumph.

He only granted himself a moment of quiet introspection before gathering his bearings. Voldemort schooled himself into a neutral expression— a carefully blank mask.

 _“Nagini, your feast awaits,”_ came his sibilant hiss in the language the two shared.

Impassively watching as the serpent extended her jaw to begin the process of swallowing the man, he made vain attempts to calm the quickened beating of his heart. The implications behind the wand obeying him were far too many, far too rich to ignore. 'You can think about it later,' a distant voice chided— it was right.

Returning his horcrux's wand to the sleeve of his robes, riding out the wave of success, he tilted his head towards Bellatrix. 

“Come, Bella.” The wide, grand doors parted of their own accord as he approached them. “We have a new world order to instil.”

* * *

* * *

The sun was beginning to dip past the tree’s horizon and 4 Privet Drive still found a redheaded girl sequestered away in its backyard.

Her attempts to learn were futile. There wasn't as much snap in her wrist as she would have liked, not enough fluidity— and it was the wand's fault. As the frustration continued to mount, a bubbling well of irritation in her stomach, her movements devolved into being more erratic, more aggressive.

Magic crackled defensively against her skin in response to her ire— a cry of irritation tore from her throat. Harri hurled the wooden stick into Petunia's prized topiary, auburn hair frayed and coming out of its hastily made bun. And though she knew, logically, it wasn't the wand's fault, that her annoyance stemmed from something far more than simply not being able to copy the diagram’s movements, she found herself not caring.

It felt therapeutic to throw it, to have a physical outlet for her anger.

“Now, Potter, that’s no way to treat a wand,” a stern voice reprimanded from behind her.

Harri whirled on the spot— eager to tell whoever it was to shove off— when emerald robes and a pointed hat caught her eye.

“Professor McGonagall! I’m sorry, I just— wait, what are you doing here?”

She bounded over to the older witch who was currently standing on the patio and eyeing the pastel pink lawn chairs with a look of barely-concealed horror. Harri reached up to take out her hair tie and frizzy strands fell to her waist in a damp mess from the day's humidity. 

“Can I get you anything to drink? Or to eat?” Harri asked, excited to have some form of company from the wizarding world— to have someone else to finally talk to that wasn’t her sour-faced relatives or herself.

“No. No, dear, that’s quite alright. I just felt it was prudent to check on you, considering—” McGonagall stopped herself, lips pursing.

Harri's heart sank. The earlier bliss of seeing her favourite teacher was dissipating as a knot formed in her stomach. She had spent enough time around the older woman to know that there were very few things in this world that could have caused such a reaction— to make fear dance in those normally bright eyes. 

“Professor? What’s happened?”

McGonagall placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, forcing a placating smile even though her eyes were murky with troubled thoughts.

It hadn’t escaped Harri’s notice that hand, suddenly frail with age, was trembling.

“Things are changing,” McGonagall said slowly, pushing her half-moon glasses further up her nose. “But everything will be alright, you’ll see.”

The professor trailed off, her expression shuttering as though she were resolute not to let anything slip.

Harri tried to decipher the words for any hidden meaning, the annoyance back with a vengeance at being kept in the dark once again. Something was obviously troubling the older woman and a million scenarios were running through her head, each one worse than the last.

“Professor—,” she was cut off by McGonagall abruptly pulling her into a tight embrace.

‘She never hugs me,’ a confused thought, arms hesitantly wrapping around a thin frame to return the gesture. While it felt odd, Harri couldn’t say that she entirely minded it either. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she allowed herself a moment to indulge in the comfort, the reassuring contact, by resting her head on a bony shoulder.

“It’ll be alright, dear. You’ll see,” the transfiguration professor muttered into tangled, auburn hair. "Everything will be fine."

* * *

* * *

The Dark Lord stood in the centre of the antechamber beneath the study, waving his hand absentmindedly as the sconces on the wall flared to life— their warm glow competed with the shadows in a valiant effort to stave off the darkness. At his feet, a triangle had been drawn on the dirt floor in ash, 3 horcruxes resting at the apexes: the goblet, the diadem, and the ring.

The girl had finally gone to bed for the night, the continuous hum in the back of his mind, the one that he came to recognise as her, finally quieting. The entirety of his day had been spent waiting for her to fall asleep, to cease the endless chatter and those nagging bursts of emotions. After all, for this to work, it was crucial that he remained free of distraction— especially so from the kind that his little human horcrux was so adept at providing.

In the low light, crimson eyes glinted with apprehension, with excitement— and with an underlying fear. Nagini, his ever-loyal, ever-present friend, was coiled in the corner of the room, just far enough away that she should be safe should anything go astray.

 _“Massstter.”_ Her triangular head lifted as a fork tongue nervously scented the air. _“Musst you do thiss? You have waited for sssoo long to have sseven. Why desstroy three more?”_

The Dark Lord shed his robes and the fluid material collected in a puddle at his feet— the cold sting of the air was barely heeded as the orange firelight painted designs across pallid skin.

He moved with grace towards the middle of the sigil, a wraith-like body too tall and too fluid to be human. The yew wand was held limply in lax fingers, the incantation ready on his tongue.

 _“Things have been off, dear one.”_ Voldemort observed his skeletal hand, those pale veins stretched too thinly and brought too close to the surface. It was a horrifying sight, one of a monster that had been summoned from death but was still lacking flesh, sinew— a cursed form.

“ _Since my rebirth. My powers have weakened, my call to them.”_ At this, he spared a glance over to the horcruxes on the ground. _“Has been severed. This is the only way I can think of to regain my former glory.”_

And even now, he could recall how Harri had looked at him when he appeared to her as Tom Riddle— the desire, the interest. Yes, she was attracted to his old form far more than his current one and what did the muggles like to say? ‘It’s easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar,’ a passing thought, mind resolute. If she coveted Tom Riddle, then she would have him— it would be easier, after all, to control her, to reign her in, to make her stay by his side if he looked the part of the prince rather than the villain.

Voldemort held his hand out, the tip of the bone-white wand pressed firmly against the palm. “Diffindo.”

Blossoms of red welled along the line he had drawn, ruby red droplets that caught the light in a mesmerizing way.

Nagini hissed from the corner as the smell of blood, metallic and sweet, permeated the air, an expression of her displeasure that she was not in agreement with this plan.

Ignoring his familiar altogether, bare feet carried him to the goblet, the dampness of the earth between his toes doing little to incite discomfort. Another testament to his lost humanity— he could no longer feel the cold, the nerve endings that relayed sensations to his skin frayed and destroyed. 

Holding the weeping palm over the chalice, three drops of his life force stained the golden surface.

“Ego antiquum spirituum invocabitis,” he chanted, voice strong and clear.

The cup began to vibrate in response to the spoken words, heat wafting off of its surface as the ruby tears began to sizzle. Satisfaction warmed him as he moved on to the diadem, eyes tracking the trickling path of blood as it tarnished the silver.

“Ad exaudi preces meas.”

Similar to the goblet, the crown had begun to quake, the free-hanging sapphire clinking loudly against the metal frame in a show of its agitation. 

Voldemort only paused at the Gaunt ring— an onslaught of conflict as his emotions warred against destroying this particular one. It symbolised his greatest revenge in life, a legacy forcefully kept from him that he had claimed, dismantled, and rebuilt in his own image. The ring contained the ghosts of his wretched family, of those who had rejected him— those who had left him to rot in a muggle orphanage with a hollow ache in his stomach and a blackness in his heart. Absolute power, proof of his dominion over those who had wronged him. Of rising past them— of rendering their bodies to ash in the earth under his very feet.

No, it was for the best.

He needed to have one more to complete the ritual and he dared not use Nagini or risk damaging the locket— after all, the pendant was his proof of his claim to Salazar’s ancestry. Plus, the ring had more magic attached to it that, he figured, could withstand the ceremony.

Slitted eyes narrowed a fraction, fingers curling into a fist with more force than probably necessary. 

The blood flowed more freely than before.

“Praebueris potentiam tuam,” he chanted, passively regarding the way the blood coating the ring began to hiss, to bubble and jump.

Returning to the middle of the sigil, an unbearable amount of heat rolled off of the horcruxes— steam flooded the underground chamber as the searing warmth intermixed with the cooling humidity. The Dark Lord swiped the bleeding palm over his bare chest, a long stroke of lukewarm tackiness. 

And there he stood, painted in light and shadow from the long flames, scarlet smeared across his body as warpaint—the Devil wandering the mortal plane.

A momentary pause, the acrid smell of burning blood and hissing artifacts bearing witness. “Dona mihi quod peto unica.”

In unison, the vibrating horcruxes had abruptly stilled. The lack of chaos felt amiss. 

Unsettling.

Voldemort glanced over to Nagini, unsure of what was to happen next or what to expect. Very few wizards had actually attempted to reabsorb their horcruxes after their creation, most texts beyond unhelpful in that regard— and, if he were being honest, he was mostly winging it at this point.

Silence.

Waiting.

And then everything was on fire.

White-hot orbs shot out from the horcruxes’ vessels, spreading out searching tendrils of creeping light. They clung to the Dark Lord in a fine web, the filaments spreading over his chest, his arms, his shoulders, their touch unbearable in the intensity of their feverish temperature.

Locked knees finally gave out, a scream tearing from his throat as he felt impossibly raw— it was as though every nerve-ending had been worn, scraped, held to an open flame. 

There was molten blood in his veins, a punishing tempo of a heartbeat, his teeth aching from the onslaught. His vision blurred, darkening dangerously on the peripheries as he helplessly sought out the form of Nagini. The snake was coiling and writhing in what looked like immense pain— fear flashed through him at the sight. Apparently, it wasn’t just him that was suffering— and the briefest thought crossed his mind, the barest pulls of concern, that Harri was probably experiencing it as well.

The seconds seemed endless, minutes felt as though they were bleeding into hours as the searing refused to abate— his breaths were panting, shallow bursts that gasped for air.

Blinking through another wave of pain, a crescendo of anguish, he chanced a glimpse down to his torso. Blood had begun up to well and weep profusely from where the filaments had dug their barbs into his skin, the vaguest notion overcoming him that they were feeding off of his life force— that they were using it to fuel the intensity of the heat licking at his body. 

Fingers scrabbled at the earth below, the dirt finding purchase under his nail beds. Something was encouraging him to faint, to succumb—but he refused to give in. He had spent 15 years feeling nothing and he figured that he should relish in being able to even perceive his current suffering at all— that he was sentient enough to fully embrace it. 

Teeth ground together, clamping down to stifle another scream.

As if sensing his resolve that he wouldn’t be the first to break, to crumble, the tendrils unexpectedly dropped their burning contact.

Sweet relief that he thought would never come.

His body collapsed to the ground, shaking arms unable to support his weight a second longer. Tremors tore through his muscles from the ordeal as he fought to regain his sight's clarity— to find the energy to move. 

A beat of silence. 

And then two.

Voldemort finally rolled onto his back.

Fighting through the exhaustion, the dulling ache in his limbs, he lifted his head and grimaced at the gore— lacerations marked the expanse of his chest, his front glinting wetly with a coat of scarlet. And, for the first time since his rebirth, he felt drained. 

A wisp rather than a man and forever waiting for the slightest gust of wind to carry him off.

“ _Nagini_.” His throat was inflamed and tender from screaming, the edges of his consciousness still blurred.

Reaching through their bond, cool relief flooded him— the slightest of respite from the aftershocks jumping through his sinew. ‘Our connection wasn’t destroyed then.' He was beyond content to know that he at least had one horcrux left.

And— ah. There _she_ was. 

His special one.

His feat that proved he was above the common rabble, the living proof to the greatness of his magic, his skill. After all, how many could lay claim to the fact that they turned a human, a witch nonetheless, into a vessel for their soul? ‘She felt it too’, he mused as his worries were confirmed, her own pain, her suffering, a second to his own. ‘Nagini. The Locket. The Girl,’ he mentally counted over his current ties to immortality, pleased that they managed to survive the ritual intact.

Lying prone in the dirt, fingers twitching in a telling sign of his returning strength, the Dark Lord finally lifted his torso off the ground.

With a wince, his magical core still raw, a mirror was conjured with a passing wave.

A light sheen of sweat had coated his naked body, attracting the dancing flames and making it appear as though diamonds had been embedded into his skin. Staring back as a reflection, albeit a touch exhausted, eyes glinting with immense satisfaction, was the face of his youth.

The same high cheekbones, the aristocratic nose, the defined jawline. The silky dark hair that curled slightly around his ears. However— he had kept that red, red gaze.

A frown tugged on the corners of his mouth as he noted that his complexion was still a touch too pale as well. But all in all, it had been a success. 

Full lips parted to reveal a row of gleaming teeth. 

He was back.

* * *

* * *

Harri, curled to one side on the bed, was shaking as tears dried in sticky tracks down her cheeks. Her chest felt as though it had been clawed and dug into by merciless talons, a dull resounding pain that flared every time her heart beat. ‘What happened,’ a terrified thought, more than thankful that the Dursleys were gone— she could only imagine their displeasure, their alarm, at her deafening wails.

Her throat was burning from her screams— it was a searing ordeal to swallow— her legs unstable and trembling. 

Bright bursts of agony split her head sporadically, the pain unevenly radiating out from her scar. 

Green eyes screwed closed and how she desperately wished that Pomfrey was by her side with one of her magical concoctions— the kind that could erase the pain and could return her back to normal. Aspirin, she just knew, wasn't simply going to cut it this time.

It was impossible to understand, to comprehend, what had just happened. Yet she had been _there_. 

She saw _him_ —naked and trembling in the dirt, covered in strands of pulsating light. 

He was alive. 

The boy from the diary that she had thought she vanquished ages ago, the very same she had thought she killed in a spray of black ink. 

Tom Riddle had risen from the dead.


	7. Diagon Alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you everyone for the attention this fic has been receiving! I love and appreciate you all for every comment, like and bookmark 💕
> 
> Please enjoy! 💕

* * *

* * *

After that night, Harri had spent nearly the rest of the week trying to gain enough strength to get out of bed, her body still feeling too raw from whatever Voldemort had done. Every inch of her ached, a dulling persistent throb that would sharpen in the wake of any abrupt movements.

She learned, rather quickly, to limit her physical activity to only when it was most dire— to go to the bathroom or to get a drink from the sink’s tap, mostly relying on a rather dwindling stash of packaged snacks under a loose floorboard for food. 

Not that she had a terrible appetite these days.

The thin mattress, with its creaky springs that bit into her skin, had become her sole comfort as she fought off the chills, the shudders, the bone-deep pangs.

Most of her time was spent in fitful bouts of sleep, mind drifting and conjuring up some rather vivid images of Tom— ‘No, _Voldemort_ ,’ she corrected herself, the distinction between the two blurring as of late. It was becoming harder and harder to draw the line between the boy from the diary— the one that she admittedly had developed quite a fascination with— and the monster that had emerged from the cauldron. 

On some nights, Harri found herself in a study, hovering over his shoulder as he scratched away at pieces of parchment and observing him with morbid curiosity. She had been reduced to an apparition, a spectre— a phantom encroaching on his daily routines and trailing after him.

On others, she would join him in the dining parlour to watch as he ate in silence at a table that seemed far too grand for just one person. Nagini, in those scenes, would usually be coiled around the chair’s legs or draped across his broad shoulders.

Rather quickly, however, Harri was beginning to hate the dreams that featured the snake— the creature seemed to look directly at her as though aware of her ghostly presence. And, without fail, it would whisper something in the Dark Lord’s ear, too quiet to hear, that always resulted in the same thing— him turning towards her with a look she couldn’t fully understand.

Green eyes fixed numbly on the ceiling, the popcorn texture starting to peel off in some areas and leaving behind bald spots in the plaster. 

A car had rolled down the paved streets of the neighbourhood, the gentle hum of its engine breaking up the monotonous quiet— it quickly faded.

Silence reigned once more— save for the occasional, distant noise of someone opening a window or back door. Most were wise enough to retreat indoors to escape the summer’s heat, the day’s balm even warding off the children.

Truth be told, these recent visions were troubling. Whenever she would attempt to decipher what her subconscious was possibly implying, Harri only felt lost— and a bit disturbed. Was it because her fictional-Voldemort was now wearing Tom's face that she didn't mind him as much? That, somehow, she was projecting onto him a residual obsession and a schoolgirl crush from years ago? Even though his attempts to outright murder her had put a damper on the whole 'romanticisation of Riddle', Harri did consider that she never properly dealt with her infatuation for him. After all, for a 12-year-old, having the undivided attention of someone who was older, in having her issues and complaints heard and acknowledged for once, in having camaraderie with someone so similar to her— it was damning. 

And it only made that eventual betrayal sting all the more.

It seemed easier, at the time, to just suppress it— to deny and claim that she never felt anything towards the boy in the first place. That her feelings were null, nonexistent— but that was a lie and Harri Potter had never been a convincing liar.

But seeing his face again brought those feelings back to the surface, complicated tugs on her conscience that did terrible things to her morality and ethics. He was _Voldemort—_ had always been, in fact. 

Glowing letters. 

An anagram cut into the ether. 

_“I Am Lord Voldemort”._

Yet still, despite all of that, the girl found herself obsessively replaying every last interaction between them — the way his mouth had been pressed into her skin when he told her to be ready. How he had whispered against the shell of her ear, those hands strongly, insistently, pressing down on her shoulders. 

Harri felt her face flare with heat and knew, without even looking in the mirror, that she was flushed.

Admittedly, she had embarrassingly little history when it came to boys, or girls, her age— nevermind older men who undoubtedly had experiences she couldn’t even fathom. Though, even her limited knowledge could understand this— none of those touches were offhanded or innocent. 

They were all done with a purpose, with intent.

‘Sweet Merlin. Can you please remember,’ logic cautioned, dragging her out of her reverie, ‘that Tom wanted to kill you just as much as Voldemort did.’

A chilled hand clutched at her right arm, remembering vividly the pain of a basilisk fang lodged deep within the muscle— a phantom sensation that twinged. And how that was a shock to her system, a bitter reality. Yes, he was attractive, unfairly so, but he was still a murderer— a homicidal maniac. 

A _Dark Lord_.

‘Maybe it’s just stress dreams again?’ She found herself desperately clinging to that thought— somehow, the idea of her mind just being fragile was more agreeable than trying to justify any underlying fantasies she may have about her greatest enemy.

Harri turned her head, auburn strands fanning across a ratty pillow, to look at the calendar hung askew above the desk. The days had been marked with a row of red Xs, each one boldly crossed out. It was the beginning of week 6 of the break and to say it was torture didn’t even cover it. ‘3 more weeks,’ she thought stubbornly. ‘21 more days and I’ll be back at Hogwarts.’ 

And though she knew, logistically, 21 days would go by in a blink, that it wasn’t such a long time, it still felt like agony. 

A prolonged and never-ending punishment.

With a stifled groan, the girl hauled her stiff body off of the bed and glanced uneasily towards the barred window. Thunder was beginning to rumble in the distance as dark clouds swelled ominously in the sky— an unspoken warning of the storm yet to come.

Apart from the day that McGonagall had appeared out of the blue, eyes full of tears but refusing to elaborate as to why, there had been a lack of news or visitors. The letters were still nonexistent as were the friendly faces showing up at the front door. ‘Well, I’m sick of it,’ she decided with no small amount of resentment, roughly snatching a black t-shirt from the floor and pulling it over her head. 

The Dursleys were due back later in the week and she refused to let such an opportunity slip by— her shaking body could be damned.

Gingerly heading down the narrow, carpeted stairs, wincing at the pangs in her legs, the girl slipped on a pair of worn, scuffed sneakers. Taking one last look in the hall’s mirror, carefully pulling a black baseball cap further down to hide her scar, she gave a resolute nod. ‘If they won’t come to me,’ she thought, slipping out the front door and into the humid afternoon. ‘Then I’ll come to them.’

Outside, the incoming storm was more noticeable. It was about to break, palpable by the taste in the air and the humidity on her skin, the scent of petrichor clinging heavily. It was rare for it to rain in Little Whinging during the summer months, the season usually marked by prolonged drought and yellowing grass— a welcomed change, she figured, as she glanced up to the clouds above.

Shoving the replacement wand into the back pocket of her shorts, the girl bounded down the paved walk and took off towards the road that led out of Privet Drive. Having reached the faded playground, its usual frequenters long since dispersed, Harri raised her wand arm towards the heavens.

A victorious grin broke out when a shining, two-tiered bus popped into existence. 

The doors sprung open. Gripping the iron rail and climbing the steep steps, she deposited her fare into the box 

“The Leaky Cauldron,” Harri said, pleased enough when the driver gave her a quick nod— he floored the vehicle before she even had the chance to sit down.

On unsteady legs, Harri managed to get to an empty seat, body being tossed about by the sudden lurches and abrupt stops. It hadn’t escaped her notice, as pale hands gripped the edges of the bench to stop from being thrown off at a particularly rough turn, that there was a distinct lack of patrons on the Knight Bus. 

Brows furrowed at the heavy silence settling over the few scattered passengers and the way no one seemed willing to speak. Even Stanley Shunpike, a man who was usually boisterous and talkative, was oddly subdued. ‘Things are changing,’ the grim words of McGonagall came back unsummoned— she shuddered. It was a foreboding warning, one that caused her stomach to clench in a way that wasn’t entirely due to motion sickness.

Another distant rumble of thunder jerked her attention towards the window, suddenly anxious as to how different the wizarding world would be when she finally returned. 

* * *

* * *

A few hundred miles away, the Dark Lord found himself in a similar position— staring up at the rolling clouds, attention consumed by the first patter of rain hitting the window’s panes. Try as he might, it had become impossible to listen to the drivel Lucius Malfoy was spouting, the nervous tics of the man wearing down his already thin patience.

In hindsight, he knew that he should listen more carefully— especially seeing as the pureblood was currently puppeteering the Ministry under his orders.

But when he felt the bright flares of his horcrux’s annoyance, the singing thrums of her victory, the bite of her anxiety, Lucius had become maddeningly distant from his thoughts.

Ever since he had gained his old form, having assimilated the errant pieces of his soul, the bond between himself and the girl had only grown in intensity. She had recently developed a nasty habit of astrally projecting when she slept— according to Nagini— and her emotions seemed to plague him more often. Too many times had his familiar alerted him to her presence in the room— one that he couldn’t actually see but could sense once made aware of.

It made him wonder what she was seeing, what she was thinking, during those little visits of hers— and, most importantly, was she doing them on purpose? 

The holly wand lay at his side and he absentmindedly palmed it, crimson stare tracing the path of a stray raindrop.

“Where are you off to now, little one?” he muttered to himself, targeting their bond until her mind became his own. “Diagon Alley? Whatever for, I wonder.”

“As for the Wizengam-,” Lucius droned on. However, he stopped short, heart rate spiking, as his Lord suddenly rose from the table— those red eyes were dark in their contemplation. 

A beat of silence followed, a moment of inaction as the rain had begun to pelt the windows in earnest— an intense rhythm. 

Sharp sounds against the glass set in an ornate frame, a lulling yet simultaneously jarring sound that filled the room.

“Lucius.”

The pureblood couldn’t quite help but jump at his name being used so casually, quickly scrambling out of the chair to bow in acknowledgement.

“How do you feel about a quick excursion?” the Dark Lord questioned with the quirk of an amused smile.

The blond raised his head, pale gaze swimming with confusion. “My Lord?”

* * *

* * *

As Harri stepped down from the bus, hopping the distance from the last step to the ground, the rain had just begun to dot the pavement in large blooms. Nodding to the driver in a show of thanks, the girl dashed into the Leaky Cauldron before the storm could worsen.

The inside of the dingy bar, which she had always known to be quite jovial and full of cheer, hadn't fared any better than the bus— it was hushed, sullen.

The few customers scattered amongst the tables seemed to only converse in low whispers, not daring to raise their voices. Only a handful had even looked up at her, the lack of attention something she would have once been grateful for— now, however, it unnerved her seeing how many wanted to avoid eye contact with a stranger.

Slipping unnoticed into the back courtyard, Harri removed her pocketed wand to tap on the age-worn bricks.

Three up.

Two across. 

The wall gave way and she shivered at the pleasant whisper of magic settling over her skin— a long lost friend she never knew how much she had missed until they were finally reunited.

The Alley was, surprisingly, busy given the grave and somber atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron.

And Harri wasn’t entirely sure what her plan even was— what she wanted to achieve by coming here. Maybe she hoped she would randomly bump into one of her friends while they were out on a shopping spree? Or perhaps find a way to send an owl and demand to know why they hadn’t reached out? Maybe she could use the floo networks at Gringotts to travel to Grimmauld Place, take Sirius by surprise and pressure him into telling her why he had broken his promise to visit? 

But, as she took a step, and then another, into the vibrant crowd, her thoughts and anger seemed to ebb away into pure joy. She was _home_ —she was finally back in the world she belonged to.

Harri revelled in the background chatter of the frequenters of the district, eyes flitting from shop to shop to commit their magnificent displays to memory. Despite the grim ambience of her journey to get here, Diagon was untouched by such darkness— and it provided her with some comfort to know it remained unchanged.

Drifting over to join the circle of kids crowded in front of the quidditch store window, she marvelled alongside them at the newest Nimbus model and smiled— a bittersweet, little thing. A sense of fierce longing for her own broom, a distant thought to buy this one— and then she was pushed along by the crowd. 

Readily allowing herself to be swept away, it was the most unburdened she had felt in a long time, the sharp pains and aches of her body forgotten.

When the sign for Magical Menagerie came into view, the owls outside hooting noisily in their cages, her heart squeezed. Harri had left her familiar, Hedwig, in Hagrid’s care over the summer, not wanting to risk it after Vernon’s repeated threats to ‘kill the bloody thing’ from last year. ‘At least this way,’ she thought grimly, debating on buying some treats so she could spoil her beloved snowy owl come September, ‘only one of us has to suffer.’

A particularly sharp crack of thunder interrupted her musings.

Green eyes glanced up at the heavy sound of rain, the droplets hammering uselessly against the invisible barrier hovering over the shopping district. Each plop incited a ripple in the shimmering shield, a fireworks show overhead of bright bursts of colour. The sight caused a delighted smile to form, a sense of elation airy in her chest that drove away any souring thoughts. It was the simplest of things that made her realise just how much she cherished this side of her life— how much she wished to remain here and only here. 

The main crowd carried her onward.

Harri spent a while merely wandering down the bustling streets until a newspaper stand caught her eye, the papers decorated with numerous flashing photographs. Sliding a knut into the dispenser, she snatched it up eagerly— this was her one chance to understand what McGonagall had been referring to, what had shaken her so terribly.

Tucking into an alcove, her heart sank, blood chilling in her veins, as she spied the headline: **DOZENS OF HIGH PROFILE PRISONERS ESCAPE FROM AZKABAN IN SECURITY BREACH.**

The front photo’s caption read ‘ _ Bellatrix Lestrange Among Those Escaped’_, a wild-haired woman laughing in a frenzied manner, straining against the shackles around her wrists and dark eyes alight with maniacal fury.

Harri devoured the paper, unable to tear her eyes from the trainwreck in her hands, turning the pages as she busied herself in committing whatever she could to memory. This was her first source of real information, _any_ information, since she had left Hogwarts— and it was entirely horrifying.

Owlish eyes widened even further in disbelief at the second article, fingers gripping the edges of the tabloid and crinkling it in the process: **LUCIUS MALFOY NAMED INTERIM MINISTER OF MAGIC, SCRIMGEOUR MISSING.**

“Things are changing indeed,” she mumbled, trying to piece it all together.

A sour taste coated her tongue as she hastily folded up the newspaper.

She looked critically to the pleasant crowd, striving to see if anyone else was having a similar reaction or was, possibly, feeling the same as her. It was sickening to see them so happy, so blissfully unaware of what was happening to their world. How accepting they were of the current injustices, a blind eye turned to it all— it made her want to scream. 

‘You were just like them a few moments ago,’ rationality chastised. ‘They probably don’t even know who’s pulling the strings.’

And, suddenly, Diagon Alley didn’t seem as pleasant, as jovial and inviting as it had been earlier.

Now it was cloying. 

Stifling. 

Too many people hurrying through the crowds— a sense of claustrophobia, of unrelenting sickness, washed over her. 

Stuffing the article hastily into the short’s pockets, she scanned in distress for a gap in the traffic to jump into, an overwhelming urge to leave pushing her forward.

Just as the girl had rejoined the throng, threading and weaving her way through the masses, she heard it. 

A soft whisper and a light tap on her shoulder. " _Harri_." 

Jolting in alarm, she twisted her neck— only to see an elderly couple behind her, clearly enamoured with one another and thoroughly occupied by their conversation.

Her heart pounded wildly in the confines of her ribs, an unrelenting tempo that made the world around her spin and distort. Tugging her cap down further over the scar, the girl ducked her head and stuffed her hands into her pockets, trying to find some composure— to display an outward nonchalance. 

But it was a nagging feeling, one she couldn’t quite shake, that someone was following her— _watching_ her. 

_“Harri. Harri Potter._ ” There it was again— the baritone voice whispering insistently against her ear, a tug on her elbow.

This time, the girl had whirled around in agitation, ready to yell at someone to shove off— the couple reeled back in surprise at her sudden temper.

But there, a few feet further down the strip, a man stood impossibly still— impossibly tall. The crowd had parted around him, subconsciously giving him space and not daring to come any closer. It was as though they had all instinctively recognised his magic, a subtle underlying current that triggered warning flags to stay away— to not encroach upon him.

The wizard was dressed in a black linen shirt, four buttons left undone to reveal the hollow dip of his collarbones, hands buried casually into pressed, black trousers. Her jaw had dropped on its own accord, the lines of her body going taut as green eyes took in the perfectly kempt dark hair— a stray, defiant curl finding purchase above a shapely brow— the angled cheekbones and that confident smirk.

And what was most jarring were his eyes— red, entirely too red, and watching her in fascination. There was a darkness held in them that, even from this distance, she could recognise as the shadows of hunger. ‘Tom Riddle.’

Recovering from the shock, fear was the first emotion to sweep through her, mouth closing with an audible click. It was followed shortly by embarrassment at having been caught off guard by his appearance and the casual way he was dressed—and how perfectly such fashion suited him. Thankfully, anger, hot and blazing, made a miraculous appearance to overshadow all else— the question of _how_ , exactly, Riddle was here being entirely ignored.

Her emotions warred for dominance until she decided it was safe to settle on rage. It was the easiest one for her to harness, after all, considering it was _his_ fault that she had been banished to the Dursley’s home. 

_His_ fault for inducing her to a near coma-like state for a week. 

_His_ fault that he was uprooting everything she loved about the world she only had just found. 

And how she wanted vengeance, justice— to make him pay. 

Instinctively, a pale hand reached for the wand in the back pocket, that widening leer of his only serving to incite further rage— to encourage those sparks.

It was as if he guessed what she was thinking, what she was feeling— that he just knew how quickly she went for her wand. With the slightest tilt of his head, she heard the words _'Follow'_ whispered in her ear without his mouth even moving.

Too-green eyes narrowed as Harri watched him saunter down into a side-alley.

The girl started to thread her way through the crowd, muttering out rushed apologies as she fought through the steady throng. It was disconcerting to see him amongst so many pedestrians, wearing the face of a man who looked barely older than she was and dressed in such muggle clothing to top it off. Every notion, every detail of it threw her for a loop— and whatever he was planning couldn’t have been good. After all, why would a Dark Lord appear in Diagon Alley? Perhaps he was planning on using those gathered here as hostages, as leverage. The children, the elderly, the parents— they were all, unknowingly, at his mercy. All blissfully unaware that Death itself had appeared in their midsts.

But she would be damned if she let him go that far.

Her gaze darted to the shadows, wondering if his Death Eaters were armed and ready, hidden away to be unleashed at his command. It wouldn’t be above him, she figured, to try to hold innocent lives over her head to get her to fight him— to incite her to battle and duel until only one of them remained standing.

Should she yell? 

Raise the alarm and tell everyone to get to safety? 

'No, it would only cause mass panic.'

Her teeth ground together, steps quickening in her urgency. 

And perhaps it wasn’t exactly the wisest idea to go after a Dark Lord with a wand that only half-listened— one that chose to ignore its 'master' more often than not. But Harri Potter wasn’t exactly known for her ability to think things through properly or to listen to reason when her heart told her otherwise. 

In fact, at the moment, said ‘heart’ was encouraging her to punch him right in his pretty face for even daring to appear in public.

In the haste to catch up to him, the girl hadn’t been looking where she was going, attention glued to the shadowed alley that he had disappeared into. 

And that’s how Harri found herself bumping, head first, into the one person that she had desperately wished to avoid.

“Out for a stroll, Potter?” Snape drawled, his surprise only betrayed by the single, raised brow.

Onyx eyes stared cooly down at the redhead, entirely unimpressed with her antics and not afraid to show it. There was a tightness in the corners of his mouth, a flickering expression of distaste, the bridge of his nose wrinkling ever so slightly.

“Professor! I was just—” Harri’s mind fumbled for a good excuse, to formulate one he would buy, as she peered around his lanky frame.

Her fingers tightened around the wand, heart hammering knowing that Voldemort was, undoubtedly, lying in wait in the shadows. If he was here, she had to get to him first before he did something irreversible— before he saw fit to turn the shopping district into a warzone.

However, the girl barely had time to get a word in otherwise before her upper arm was seized in a firm grip, the tug at her navel the only warning she received as Diagon Alley bled away in a whirl.

* * *

* * *

Harri tried her best not to lose the contents of her stomach as she stumbled across the Dursley’s too pink living room, her mind striving to play catch up after being forcefully shoved through a vacuum. 

Snape towered over her slight frame, watching with a sneer as the redhead futilely attempted to gather her bearings.

“You stupid girl," he seethed, dark eyes glinting with barely concealed rage."What were you thinking waltzing around Diagon Alley in broad daylight? Does the arrogance you possess really know no bounds?”

Was she truly this ignorant, this unaware, that the Dark Lord was on the rise? That she could have been so easily killed if she had the misfortune of running into him? Or was her inherent defiance towards authourity that profound that she was willing to risk her life? 

In any case, it gave him a headache. 

It took Harri a moment to process what he was saying, her cheeks heated at his gall to chastise her. He was treating her like a _child_ , one entirely unaware of the potential risks. Of course she was aware— she just decided to ignore them, that’s all. Plus, who would have thought that the Dark Lord would be doing some last-minute shopping in downtown London? It hardly seemed like her fault for not having that foresight to guess such things.

“What I was _thinking_ was that I had to get out of this stupid house,” she bit out, the indignation of being forgotten, the resentment of being kept in the dark, finally overflowing after being pent-up for far too long. “What I was _thinking_ was that I had to find out what’s happening since no one is telling me anything!”

Snape glared at the girl, wand already out and deftly casting wards around the property line to prevent any further attempts of escape. He had no doubt in his mind that the second his back was turned, she would go rushing back in some form of Gryffindor idiocy.

The professor didn’t even pause in his warding as he sniped back, “And what kind of information could a _child_ possibly need? As much as it may surprise you, Potter, not everything revolves around you and sating your ego.”

He sheathed his wand, critically assessing the way her eyes had widened in shock. Dumbledore had deemed it wise to keep her unaware of the politics that were currently shaping their world, figuring that it would have been too much for her teenage mind to process. And after witnessing her little outburst, the anger beginning to spark between her fingers, he was starting to see some merit in the idea.

“What kind of—,” she spluttered. “To fight him of course! That’s what everyone is expecting me to do right? To rise up and fight against him?!”

Her voice pitched, magic crackling over her skin in a defensive shield. “Well, how can I if I’m kept in the dark all the time?! I don’t even know what he’s capable of! What’s happening out there!”

The lights in the kitchen flickered menacingly, her chest heaving with effort as the bulbs hissed in their glass cages. 

Around them, the air was growing heavy, static, charged with her temper and dissatisfaction.

Snape considered her for a second longer, at a loss for what to say because, in a twisted way, she was right. Those who knew the truth were already calling for the Chosen One, looking to a girl not even sixteen to lead them into another war. To be their mantel, their saviour, their figurehead that would bring about salvation.

A dark gaze flitted over to the erratic strobing of the lights before landing back on her face, noting the clenched jaw and the twitch in her brow. He decided that it was best to act upon his usual method, the one that he always resorted to when faced with emotional conflict— running away.

Turning on his heels and waving open the front door, Severus marched out into the pouring rain with every intention of disappearing from the hormonal teenager raging in the living room.

“Don’t you dare,” she shouted, chasing after him with no regard to the pelting droplets or to the neighbours that would surely be prying from behind their lace curtains. “Turn your back on me, Severus Snape!”

The rain had begun to drench her clothes, her hair clinging to her face and arms in a mockery of a veil— a bloodied shroud. Green eyes blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision, chest rising and falling in the exertion of her anger. Fingers curled inwards— half-moon impressions bit into soft palms.

Severus spun around slowly to study the wisp of a girl shivering a few feet away.

For a brief, painful second, it was as though Lily was the one standing before him, demanding he face her and not run away. If he overlooked the cheekbones, the pointed nose, the too-green eyes, it could have been entirely possible. 

His heart squeezed uncomfortably.

“Foolish girl,” he finally sneered, pulling himself to his full height as he came back to the moment. “Do you honestly think you can defeat him?”

There was a stretch of silence— the drumming of water on the sidewalk. 

The rain collected in pools in the soggy grass— a rising flood.

The girl's face crumpled at the revelation, the words holding a stinging honesty to them that they both knew. And there it was again— the unrelenting pang in his chest as he thought of a woman long-since passed. Part of him did wonder if it would have been easier to reprimand Harri, to not fear as much, if Lily had had a son rather than a daughter— or if her child didn’t look so much like her. 

As the thunder rumbled and the rain continued to pour, he allowed the truth to be spread bare before them. To sink in as a heavy weight, to force her to come to terms with the situation. Those who believed she could do it, could defeat Voldemort, were all fools— it was a damnable revelation. He had spent too many years in the service of the Dark Lord, had been around the man for far too long to know the extent of his magic, his abilities— his cruelty. 

Harri Potter would fall the second she faced him— and how the thought of her dead, of her crumpled and the light extinguished from those vivid eyes made him want to retch.

Severus turned away before she could see his eyebrows knit together in defeat, the way his own expression had shuttered. ‘Why,’ he begged to some unknown deity, apparating away to leave a too-thin, too-small girl in the rain, ‘did it have to be her?’


	8. Happy Birthday, Harri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! First off, as always, thank you so much for every comment, every like and every bookmark! 💕 It makes me so happy to see you guys are loving the story and has been my greatest motivator to sit down and write 💕
> 
> We do start off with a mild torture scene so if you're uncomfortable with that, please feel free to skip down to the second section
> 
> Enjoy! 💕

* * *

* * *

If someone were to ask Severus Snape what he wanted out of life, a younger, more naive, version of himself would probably have responded thusly— _“I want fame and endless glory. I want my name to be known and to have the power to vanquish my enemies.”_

But now, in his mid 30’s and wearier than ever before, he had come to an altogether different vision— _“I want a simple, uncomplicated life. One out of the spotlight and one without having to choose sides.”_

Unfortunately, Fate quite often does the exact opposite of what we desire, working in unforeseen ways and unforeseen consequences. 

And so, the Half-blood Prince resigned himself of either wish, both for fame and for peace, determining them both to be dreams of a distant past. His time for rest, he knew, was far from being attained, his services still required to play the Judas to either side— a damnable, cursed destiny.

Instead, the present currently found the man pacing in the floo parlour of Malfoy Manor, the white marble of the tile polished to an obnoxious gleam that suited the flamboyant owners of the house.

The mark on his forearm had been stinging for the past 10 minutes and it felt as though it had been splattered with hot oil— a relentless burn that made him wonder if it would blister by the night's end. The potions master had been occupied with perfecting a bone-growing concoction, a request on Pomfrey’s behalf that he was all too happy to oblige, when he had been interrupted. Summoned forth from the stone dungeons, from the comfort of acrid fumes and bubbling cauldrons, Severus attempted to calm himself.

It was already 9 in the evening, a foreboding indication of what was possibly awaiting him— after all, in his experience, very few good things occurred during the late-night hours. Not to mention, the vexation, the ire, coming from the Dark Lord was tangible, the ever-present and unrelenting pain a testament to his foul mood.

None of it boded well.

As the grand, wide doors abruptly parted on their own, the professor attempted to smoothen his expression into a neutral mask, desperately clearing his thoughts of a redheaded girl left behind in the rain.

With all the grace he knew how, the wizard swept into the room, coal gaze warily landing on each person seated at the long table— Bellatrix, hooded eyes shining with a vindictiveness that set him on edge.

Lucius and Narcissa, their faces schooled into aloof masks.

Draco, the nervous tick in the corner of his mouth betraying how green he truly was.

Rabastan and Rodolphus looking as though it were a chore, rather than an honour, to be in the Dark Lord’s presence.

And, ah— there _he_ was.

Seated at the head on the throne was none other than the Devil himself.

Having regained a more human appearance, even Snape found it within himself to admit that his Lord’s pedigree had done a rather exemplary job. The man was every inch the charming aristocrat he wished to portray, the combination of his looks and charisma a heady mix of beguiling magnetism that forced even the most reserved individuals to succumb under his spell.

But yet, in spite of his normal-enough appearance, the Dark Lord had kept the crimson eyes and the slightly too pale complexion. In Severus’s humble opinion, they betrayed his absence of humanity and only served to make him stand out.

Truly, he almost preferred the serpentine monster— the one that had no qualms over his appearance— over the one that was playing pretend at being human. It was discomforting and all too easy to be caught off guard around this version. 

“Ah, Severus.” Voldemort's countenance was pleasant enough— the full mouth was relaxed into a slight, almost congenial, smile, his shoulders free of tension.

It was all a lie.

The potion master’s mark was still burning and he had an irrational fear that it was going to blister, that the skin was bubbling, swelling— melting off. He clenched his jaw, trying to fight off the wave of pain, to ignore it as best as he could.

“At last. Sit.” The Dark Lord had gestured with an open hand to the empty seat at his right.

Glowing eyes tracked him as he moved, stiltedly, further into the room.

The hush was only punctuated by the clicks of his shoes on the polished tile as he swept closer to the table. After a quick, shallow bow, a respectful greeting, Snape slid into the proffered seat.

Brushing out the long robes and tugging the sleeves sharply down, the man mentally probed at his Occlumency shields to ensure they were still intact. The life of a double spy, of toeing the grey area in both camps, was not for the faint of heart— but at least some good had come out of it. The ability to conceal his thoughts had become top-notch out of necessity— the one key to his survival. 

“Rabastan was just entertaining us with recent reports of a centaur uprising,” Voldemort drawled, tone lilting with an edge that made it seem as though the prior conversation was a secret, an inside joke — that, in fact, centaurs were not what they had been discussing.

The sound of a snort— pathetically attempted to be covered up by a cough— from Bellatrix confirmed Snape's suspicions. He was about to inquire as to why he had been summoned when he saw it. 

There, in the Dark Lord's hand, long fingers obsessively running along the length of it, was a wand. And not just any wand— it was _hers_.

Snape had spent 5 years with the girl in his classes— enough time that he would recognise the piece of wood anywhere. Merlin knows she was careless with it, parading it about or, much to his horror when he first saw her do it, using it to keep her hair up.

His pulse quickened, an uneven cadence, a thin sheen of cold perspiration settling along his skin. ‘Does he have her?’ Those mental shields threatened to slip, faltering ever-so-slightly. 

But he _just_ saw her. He had left her at Privet Drive, left her in the rain behind layers of wards to protect her, to ensure she couldn’t escape.

The man tried to frantically gather himself, to rebuild his defenses before the Dark Lord could seize the opportunity to slip into his mind and collect information that he shouldn’t be privy to. ‘If he had her,’ rationality argued, eyes glued obsessively to the holly wand, ‘I would have known about it.’

When dark eyes dared to look up, it was to see the Dark Lord studying him knowingly, latching on to the momentary lapse in his otherwise indifferent facade. 

Warning bells were going off.

“Tell me, Severus,” Voldemort began.

There was a calmness, an evenness, to the words that rattled the professor more than he would care to admit.

Elegant fingers had placed the holly wand deliberately, slowly, down in front of the potions master, lingering only for a brief second on the handle. “Where did you run off to today?”

Snape had been about to open his mouth, to lie through his teeth to protect a girl he knew didn’t deserve her fate, a child that wasn’t even his, when the world exploded in searing, white-hot pain.

The man had fallen from the chair, his bones grating against each other in their sockets in a repulsive, scraping sound. Distantly, he could register the cracks as his spine arched to an unnatural degree, the deranged laughter from Bellatrix competing with jarring moans— they were coming from him, he belatedly realised, tearing freely from his throat with a mind of their own.

A metallic taste, sharp and unpleasant, flooded his mouth— his teeth had bitten through the lower lip in an attempt to stifle his cries, the scarlet liquid flowing down his chin, his neck, with a tacky warmth.

When the spell was finally lifted, a sweet blessed relief, a moment of reprieve, he shakily rolled to his side and up onto trembling arms. 

Severus had to spit the blood from his mouth in order to speak, too much of it to possibly swallow. 

An alarming stain on pristine white tiles. 

“M-My Lo-lord?” A stutter was all he could manage, mind still reeling from the Cruciatus.

Everything was too foggy, the ache in his joints and the roaring in his ears drowning out all other sound.

“You see, Severus.” The previously calm tone had bled away into venom, eyes aglow with what, Snape had ascertained, was hellfire.“I was in Diagon today, as well, and so very close to dealing with a certain persisting problem of mine. So you can imagine my surprise when she was suddenly spirited away.”

In the wake of the Dark Lord’s words, another round of flaying pain tore through him— he hadn't even seen the curse coming.

Snape’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as frayed nerve-endings were assaulted. He was convulsing on the ground, fingers scrabbling along the slick flooring for purchase and desperately seeking something to ground himself with, when his skull had met the marble with a sickening crack.

Mercifully, the curse was lifted not soon afterwards— the man lay prone, bloodied and with a heavy layer of sweat covering his skin.

Coal eyes darted about the ceiling frantically, sight dimmed and unfocused. Yet, even through the haze, through the blanketing fog of residual pain, a horrifying revelation still made itself known— the Dark Lord had been using her wand this entire time. 

And it _listened_ to him. 

But before he could think too much on it, Voldemort filled his swimming vision to hover over his broken body.

The toe of an Oxford loafer pressed down cruelly onto a bloodied cheek, the smear of gore across waned skin wetting the shoe’s sole.

“Do. Not,” Voldemort hissed in caution, eyes flashing in rage, in fury. “Disappoint me again, Severus.”

And with that parting, ominous warning, the Dark Lord had vanished to leave the potions professor sporadically twitching and bleeding out on the polished floors of the Malfoys’ dining room.

* * *

* * *

When the Dursleys had finally returned from their vacation, their skin a revolting shade of red and dreadfully blistered from the sun, Harri wasn’t sure whether to laugh— to claim their suffering was karmic retribution— or to groan at the unexpected amount of work before her.

The girl had spent the next day in the kitchen, preparing oat milk for their baths and aggressively peeling aloe vera from its waxy casings. The only respite that made the task more bearable was to alternate between envisioning a certain Dark Lord and a sneering professor whenever she brought the cleaver down onto the thick leaves.

Harri had had a good deal of time to think about Snape’s judgment of her abilities. And while the man did have a decent point, and it was true that she couldn’t defeat Voldemort the way she was right now, the fact he couldn’t even _pretend_ to have some faith irked her beyond all reason. ‘Would it kill him,’ a miserable thought as she struggled to haul a stockpot of oats up the narrow stairs, ‘for him to be optimistic for once? You can do it, Harri! I believe in you, Harri. We can defeat him if we work together, Harri!'

She shook the oats, some of them clinging stubbornly to the bottom of the pot, forcibly into the tub, her frustration mounting. “But no. He just has to be a complete prick about it.”

The metal container was tossed onto the linoleum tile, her vision blurring— the floor’s checkered panels blended together in a mess of green and yellow. It was a startling truth, one that rattled her as someone had finally acknowledged it aloud. But if it wasn’t her destiny to rise up against evil, to finally act as the Chosen One, then what was? People were counting on her to stand up to the Dark Lord, to fight— to possibly _die_ for them. 

A shudder passed through her, thin hands scrubbing over a weary face before running messily, wildly, through the auburn strands.

Harri slid down the bathroom wall, huddling next to the slotted vent— the chilled air blowing from the grate was a minor relief. She didn’t want to die, that much was obvious. Not yet at least— but there was no doubt that, if she had to face Voldemort on the battlefield, she probably would. 

But that was her fate, right? 

The reason she had been born and the reason her parents had to die? 

To sacrifice herself for the sake of justice?

Some rebellious, self-preserving side to her baulked at the very idea— and all too readily pointed out that it was unfair that she, at only 15, was already envisioning her death. That her entire existence, her entire life was the punchline to an ever-running joke of Fate— something to laugh at. 

An errant tear had escaped and the girl stubbornly wiped it away before any more could follow in pursuit.

The sound of someone shuffling past the open bathroom door, their feet frozen midstep, made her look up. 

Petunia hovered in a pink house dress, a thick layer of aloe smeared across reddened skin, as she took in the sight of a girl crouched by the tub. Of her fiery hair, so similar to a sister she had long lost, the green eyes glassy with unshed tears. The way she seemed so small, so vulnerable, that, for a moment, it unnerved her. 

The woman opened her mouth to reprimand her niece, to instruct her to get up and go do something so she wouldn’t have to see her mope about— or to be unfairly reminded of someone she’d rather wished to forget. Yet, the words refused to come.

Her tongue was too heavy. 

And, sometimes, Petunia could have sworn she saw Lily instead. The mother instead of the daughter, a phantom that refused to cease its haunting and leave her in peace. Especially so during moments like these. Quiet, uninterrupted little things— the whir of the air conditioner a lulling rhythm that invited an unhealthy amount of introspection and a barrage of unwanted memories. 

Petunia turned her head resolutely, determined to forget the ghost lingering on the checkered floor as she silently trudged back to her bedroom. 

The door closed and locked behind her.

* * *

* * *

Two days later had found Harri more sullen than usual as she woke up to the date of July 31st.

While she, herself, never paid her birthday much attention, and neither did the Dursleys for that matter, it still pained her more than she would like to admit.

Just last year, the remaining two and a half weeks of the summer had been spent at the Burrow where her birthday was a celebrated affair. She longed for Mrs. Weasley’s almost-too-tight hugs and the way the twins aimed to include her in every prank. 

She missed how Ginny would spend hours braiding her hair just to take it all out to start over again.

And Ron. 

Ron with his quidditch magazines and hidden candy stash tucked deep in his closet— with his wizarding chess set and enchanted posters plastered on the walls.

And she wasn’t sure what hurt the most— the fact that no one reached out to her all summer or the fact that the Burrow was beginning to be more and more of a distant memory.

Adamantly blinking back the mist from her eyes and trying to banish the gaping maw of disappointment, the girl hoisted herself out of bed. All she had to do was get through today— and, come tomorrow, she would be one step closer to returning to Hogwarts.

When she finally meandered downstairs, the house suspiciously still, she had found a note stuck carelessly to the fridge. According to the hastily scribbled memo, the family had gone to visit good old Aunt Marge and would be back Sunday. It also reminded her, rather pointedly, that she shouldn’t forget to weed the garden and replace the window screens in the kitchen before their return.

“Well, hallelujah,” a bitter mumble, crumpling the note and tossing it aggressively into the bin. “At least I get 1 birthday wish.”

Free from the Dursleys, yet again, and for an entire weekend at that— perhaps this year’s birthday wouldn’t be all that terrible.

* * *

* * *

Though the sun had set hours ago, sleep was not her friend.

It refused to answer her calls entirely, remaining stubbornly out of reach. The girl lay atop scratchy covers, the bedroom’s air stifling in spite of the cracked window, the outside breeze stagnant and nonexistent. Though Harri had tossed on a tank top and pajama shorts to fight off the heat, it was all for naught— she still tossed and turned from the sweltering humidity, desperately chasing after visions that refused to come. 

All in all, it was a fitting end to an equally unpleasant day. 

Blessedly, at some point, as green eyes fixated on the ceiling and counted backwards from 500, her lids had begun to grow heavy. What had evaded her prior was now calling insistently, urgently, unable to wait a moment longer.

She succumbed.

* * *

* * *

Where Harri had found herself, however, wasn’t in a dream of her choosing. Upon finally gaining enough awareness to comprehend where she was, she could only groan.

The study materialising around her was one that she had become increasingly intimate with over the past few months. A man was seated at the oak desk, dark head bowed and brows furrowed in concentration as he scrawled away on a piece of parchment.

“Of bloody course.” 

Distantly, she cursed her brain for deciding to ruin the day just a touch further. 

Her feet carried her past the velvet chaise lounge, the couch angled towards the roaring fire, and past the ornate Persian rug covering the wood floor. They only saw fit to stop when she stood directly in front of the desk, splayed hands finding purchase among the scattered documents as she leaned forward, curious to read what was being written. 

“Well, what's he writing about this time? ‘101 Tips on Becoming a Dark Lord’?” Harri mused, chuckling slightly at her own terrible joke as she lifted herself on to her toes to get a better look.

A frown and a soft exhale of agitation. “Merlin, even his penmanship is beautiful. What a bloody git.”

The quill nestled between deft fingers suddenly stilled— the sentence only half-finished.

Her frown deepened at the mirth dancing across his features. There was an air to him as though he had just heard a joke, one that greatly amused him but refused to share aloud. 

“Did he hear me? He never hears me though,” she muttered.

Harri moved closer, head tilting and upper-body all but sprawled on the desk. She was suspiciously searching for any signs that might betray the fact that he knew she was there. Emerald eyes flickered over his fanned lashes, the way a smirk pulled the corners of his mouth higher up on the left than the right. The plume had been set down with a soft click. And she had to give her imagination credit for even dreaming this up— for all the details it had thought of down to the very fact she could feel his breath fanning across her cheeks.

Suddenly the Dark Lord looked up from the report in front of him, his eyes swirling with too many shades of red. “Hello, Harri.”

Silence followed, shock registering as the lines of her body went taut. 

And then she screamed.

Harri scrambled off the desk, bumping her shin on the edge in the process and letting out a sharp hiss at the numbing pinpricks that quickly appeared. It was a distracting sensation, one that radiated throughout her leg, bone-deep in its ache.

“Shit!” she cursed at the pain.

‘These bloody dreams need to chill out.’ She hurried to put space between herself and the Dark Lord, panicked at the fact he was self-aware in this one.

Upon reaching the safety of the lounge, Harri eyed the man apprehensively as he rose from the desk, gaze evenly meeting hers with no small amount of amusement glinting in their depths. On instinct, fingers reached to grasp at a wand that wasn’t there only to mentally berate herself for forgetting that this was all a figment of her imagination rather than an actual threat.

Nonetheless, she trusted a Dream-Voldemort just as much as she did the real one— which was to say completely zero. 

The Dark Lord had hungrily tracked the movement, smug satisfaction darkening his eyes a shade as he noted her revelation that she lacked a wand.

Moving out from behind the desk, he casually leaned against it, arms crossing as he observed the war of emotions dancing across her face. It was indeed a surprise, a pleasant albeit an unexpected one, that the girl had appeared to him— that she was subconsciously tapping into their bond. To say that it delighted him that she was reaching out, whether intentional or not— that _she_ came to _him_ first— would be an understatement.

At this point, it was beyond delight— it was complete elation.

The horcrux in her quite obviously longed for him and to be close to the original soul in a way that it appeared she wasn’t entirely conscious of yet. But it was no matter— she would learn soon enough.

For the briefest second, he allowed himself the liberty of scrutinizing her. The pajama shorts exposed more of her than what was probably decent and the dip in her shirt's neckline was dangerously low— both were bold, to say the least. And though not entirely opposed to the sight, it was an interesting choice of attire that he couldn’t help but wonder if she dressed like this with a degree of regularity— some part of him certainly hoped so.

“I must confess, Harri,” he began as he forced himself to look back up. “I am surprised to see you here, considering, after all, this is my mindscape.”

His amusement grew tenfold at her dumbfounded expression— the way her brows had knitted together in bewilderment, the slight pout of her lower lip as the gears began to turn. And oh, she had no clue. No idea how much the part of her that was his craved to be reunited, to be in such close proximity that it had, without her even knowing, projected herself to him. 

The thought caused a wicked possessiveness to burrow in the depths of his chest, a writhing sensation as he watched her flounder for words.

“Your mindscape? No. No, this is a dream. _My_ dream,” she puzzled out, moving to the opposite side of the couch as he pushed off from the desk to stalk over.

“That’s why _you_ don't have a wand— because _I_ don’t.” She attempted to rationalise it as her dream’s way of levelling the playing field between the two. 

After all, Merlin only knew that she had been obsessing over the past few days over the idea that Voldemort was much more adept at fighting than she was. At the fact that he was a trained wizard, had completed his schooling and was capable of feats that made her head swim. 

Neither having a wand here at least eliminated that disparaging worry.

He mirrored her movements as she stepped to the left, both circling the couch in an orbit.

The sudden laughter, however, took her by surprise and she faltered in the next step to keep an equal distance between them.

“Oh Harri,” he chuckled indulgently, shaking his head in disbelief.

As the initial bout of levity died down, the smirk deepened, his gaze predatory as he watched the girl’s vulnerability, her confusion, shine so brightly in those green eyes.

He reached down to grip the arm of the chaise opposite to her, fingers digging into the plush, velvet fabric.

“Don’t you see?” he began sweetly, the tone in direct conflict with the look fixed on her. “You came into _my_ mind. So why on earth would I need a wand here?”

As if to prove his point, the couch she had been holding onto for stability fell away and she stumbled into the space where it once had been.

His hand shot out to grip her forearm, stabilizing the girl before she could completely fall. They both looked down for a beat, twin ruby and emerald stares, at the pale hand clutching her arm and the way long fingers had curled possessively around it.

A prolonged moment before he reluctantly let go, withdrawing his contact and relinquishing the viselike hold. The imprint of his hand lasted only for a few seconds. Voldemort eyed it, preoccupied and possessed as he watched it fade away on cream-coloured skin.

He wanted to leave even more— to paint her skin like a twisted version of a Monet. Fingers twitched at his side.

‘There was no pain,’ she thought in a delayed reaction when he hesitantly stepped away, cradling the arm to her chest in wonder. Somehow, that only further confirmed this was a dream, a hallucination— after all, in the real world, whenever he had touched her, it only led to agony.

Harri regarded him as he retreated back to leaning against the desk, uncomfortable by the way crimson eyes seemed content to watch her— to see right through her and to read her thoughts. And she did wonder, briefly, if she felt so powerless in her waking life that she had to even give Dream-Voldemort dominion over a space that she should, theoretically, be in control of.

‘Merlin, Freud would have a field day with me.’ Harri edged away from the Dark Lord, the silence in the space almost too deafening and too sacred to break.

In the lull of their conversation, the girl wandered over to the bookshelves, trying to distract herself and pass the time until she woke up. The unfamiliar titles only made her scowl. She knew, for a fact, that she had never once read a text on ‘The Refined History of the Dark Arts’. And the only justification she could think of was that Hermione once had, ages ago, and talked about it in passing— hence her subconscious deciding to materialise it.

A single finger trailed over their spines, goosebumps ghosting over her skin as the weight of his leering settled on her. The endless staring, the never-moving scarlet eyes stalking her as she made her way about the study. It was distressing the way she could feel his gaze dipping down more than once to her exposed legs, leaving her frazzled and off-centred. ‘Why,’ she thought spitefully, ‘does he get to have normal clothes and I’m stuck in my pjs?’ It seemed hardly fair.

Just another item to add to the endless list of the Mortifications of Harri Potter. 

“Stop that,” she finally snapped, pausing mid-step and unable to stand his open appraisal any longer.

Voldemort arched a brow, a sense of mirth, of delight, thriving in his chest as he took in her flushed appearance and how her fists quivered in her embarrassment. Apparently, his little horcrux didn’t like to be watched. Pity, considering that was his favourite pastime at the moment.

“Stop what?” he questioned innocently.

In his past experience, women were always keen to worship him whenever he gave them his attention, the lust in their eyes a pretty clear indication of their interest. But she seemed bothered, discomposed, unsure. ‘She must hate being in the spotlight.’ He reached behind him to grip the desk's edge.

The very notion was almost laughable.

Even he, a man once reduced to a wraith for 15 long years, knew of her fame, of how the wizarding world paid such close attention to every move she made and every breath she took. Their darling Chosen One, their saviour, The Girl Who Lived. ‘Except,’ a darkness suddenly appeared in his thoughts, venom on his tongue, ‘They conveniently forgot one thing— she never belonged to them.’

“You— everything! The staring,” she explained, voice pitching in her mortified indignation.

Harri knew she fell for his trap when amusement lit up his face— knew that he had been purposefully baiting her to see a reaction. Apparently, her mind had felt the need to spice things up by conjuring a cheeky Voldemort and she wasn’t exactly too thrilled by the betrayal.

And how many questions did she have for him. How much did she want to confront him, to demand to know why he couldn’t have just stayed dead. But, considering that he was just a product of her subconscious, a projection of her insecurities, she doubted he would have any answers for her— or, at least, none that would be real.

They lapsed back into quiet as she completed her circle around the study, nose wrinkling at a rather peculiar section of books on disembowelling. “Bloody hell, my imagination really is something, isn’t it?”

A sharp laugh had her turning on the spot in alarm, the Dark Lord’s head thrown back, teeth glinting in the firelight. There was only time for a slow blink before he was there, crowding her against the shelves.

Voldemort had placed both hands on either side of her, caging the girl in so she couldn’t run. His eyes were a burgundy, the colour of spilled wine, in the dim lighting.

“Harri,” he crooned, brows pulled together in a show of mock sympathy. “You still think this is merely a dream?”

The Dark Lord greedily watched her response as he encroached on her space, the way she was silenced by his body towering over her— the almost imperceivable way her breath had hitched. Something insatiable began to claw in his chest, a monster begging to come out and to give in to the base desires humming in the back of his mind. 

And who was he to deny himself?

“Perhaps,” he mused, watching the fear in her eyes war with the desire, the pupils minutely dilating— an eclipse edged by a ring of verdant green.

He bent down to speak next to her ear, savouring the blush creeping over her cheeks and taking some delight in how she refused to breathe, to move, to push him away.

“I should give you some proof.” His lips brushed against the shell of her ear.

He only paused for a brief second before, abruptly, violently, biting down on the soft pulse point between her neck and the vulnerable cleft of her collarbone. 

Harri froze at the sharp teeth sinking into her neck, cold panic flooding her as she willed her arms to move— for her legs to kick, for her to scream. For her body to do _something_. Her pulse was erratic in its rhythm, her mind frantically trying to play catch up to what was happening— stumbling and dazed at the delay in sensation. 

A fear passed through her, for a second, that he would bite too deep, tear her throat out and drain the life from her. That Voldemort might finally vanquish The Girl Who Lived.

The dream had descended into a nightmare.

At the present, however, it appeared that he had other plans— a breathy chuckle vibrated throughout his chest.

Harri winced as the pain in the bite had only increased, fingers twitching with a mind of their own as the heady, metallic tang of blood filled the space between their bodies. ‘He bit me,’ her shocked thoughts were wild as she regained control of her arms, pushing desperately against broad shoulders in appalled revulsion. ‘The maniac actually bit me!’

An involuntary shudder passed through her when a tongue, flat and heated, laved over the fresh mark in an attempt to chase away the residual pain— an oddly soothing balm to the sting. While some part of her didn't entirely hate the sensation, another part, the one she would later claim to be the logical side, was outright scandalized. 

And, of course, that side would be the first to deny the fact that she had inexplicably moaned at the feeling of his tongue and the way it had granted her an odd, fleeting pleasure. 

Voldemort suddenly pulled away, depraved triumph in his gaze as he stared down at the shocked girl in front of him, his mouth tinged wetly with scarlet. The gore was bright across the column of her pale throat, a jarring contrast that he found, truthfully, rather beautiful. A twisted thought considered how ethereal she looked when she bled, his eyes ravenous as he drank in the sight and committed it to his memory.

He idly licked the staining crimson off of his teeth, her life’s very essence, as a slow smirk tugged on bloodied lips. "Happy Birthday, Harri.”

* * *

* * *

She jolted awake, the fitful rhythm of her heartbeat causing her to desperately gasp in the muggy night air. Thin shoulders were quaking, body entirely too chilled as she tried to banish the nightmare from her mind. 'It was just a dream— nothing more.'

Yet the persistent, dulling throb on her throat told a different story— one that made her almost too afraid to check, too terrified to see if there was any evidence of what had just transpired. 

Nonetheless, Harri hastily untangled her legs from the starchy sheets, fleeing down the dark hall to the bathroom in a panic.

As the lights slowly flickered to life, a pit settled in her stomach. Trembling hands gingerly prodded at the bleeding mark above the hollow of her collarbone.

A perfect imprint of teeth, the confirmation of a monster trying to devour her.

A perverse smile, too sharp, too wicked, flashed in her mind’s eye— she could almost hear the smug, _‘I told you so’_.

Her knees buckled and she braced herself against the sink as she intently watched her blood drip down the drain— greedy blooms vibrant against the porcelain.

“It’s real,” she muttered breathlessly, terror alighting every nerve in her body as she acknowledged the truth. “It was all real.”

A shaky laugh tore from her as she sank down to the bathroom floor, trying to fully comprehend what this meant. 

The dreams weren’t simply just visions— they were reality.


	9. It Was A Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I ended up taking some creative liberties regarding parselmouths for this fic so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for all of the attention you've been giving this fic! It means so much to me 💕
> 
>   
> Enjoy! 💕

* * *

* * *

Harri had spent the remainder of the night awake, too terrified to go back to sleep should Voldemort be lurking somewhere in the back of her mind, smugly awaiting her return. Instead, she waited for dawn, pressing a towel against the stubbornly bleeding bite in a vain attempt to staunch its weeping. And if she was cursing the Dark Lord with every insult she knew of, who could blame her? 

A solemn vow was made to hex him within an inch of his life the next time they met—or, at the very least, give him a rather deserving kick to the shin.

Leaning across the desk, an incredulous gaze fixed on the gruesome reflection in the small, frameless mirror. ‘What kind of psycho,’ her thoughts were acidic, ‘bites someone as proof it’s not a dream?! Whatever happened to pinching someone awake or drawing on their hand?’

She tried not to flinch as she gingerly swabbed antibiotic cream onto the worst of it— and, unwittingly, her gaze shifted in the mirror to the wand laying atop the mattress's worn covers.

Harri debated on using a spell to heal it, to ease the aching pangs and risk tripping the Trace. After all, she was 16 now and the Ministry was going to hell— who was to say they even were monitoring underage magic use anymore? They certainly had bigger issues to deal with at the present.

A distant memory of a howler, her heart shattering at the declaration of an impending expulsion from Hogwarts— the smug face of Vernon hovering in the background.

Stiff fingers fumbled to open a box of bandaids— it wasn’t worth risking it. Especially not if it gave Dumbledore a potential reason to keep her stranded at the Dursley’s longer than necessary. And she could already hear him chastising her for her recklessness.

The bite would just have to heal on its own in the traditional, muggle way— however long that may take.

* * *

* * *

Apparently—as Harri had come to learn over the next week, stuck wearing high collared shirts much to the suspicious glares of her relatives— healing the muggle way took forever. It was a painful, long arduous process, one in which the pain refused to fully abate. ‘Just another reason why not having magic is bloody awful.’

And now, more than ever, she couldn’t quite help but resent the fact that she was being cut off from her birthright— that it was deemed lawful to keep muggle-borns from their heritage under the threats of expulsion. Or worse—having their wands snapped. It seemed like such a simple solution too— just have the students who had to return to the muggle world stay at the school over the summer. If that were the case, Pomfrey could have fixed her in a mere second.

But, instead, she was saddled with a wound that refused to heal and only aspirin to manage the pain.

As the circled date on the calendar drew closer, the blessed day that would mark her return to Hogwarts, the imprint had barely faded. While it was, mercifully, not bleeding anymore, it still remained inflamed— an angry shade of rosy red curling on its edges, ghastly and grim.

The girl stood on her toes to lean over the porcelain sink, carefully pulling down her shirt to gape at it in the medicine cabinet’s mirror. Despite how much time had passed, it was still horrifying to behold— she could see each, individual tooth mark and the deeper indentations where canines, sharper than the rest, had sunk firmly, deeply, into the flesh.

A ghost of a chill as an unsolicited image of his face, stained with blood, _her_ blood, floated to the forefront of her thoughts. The way he had suggestively licked the scarlet off of his teeth and how heated his tongue had been. How the usually kempt hair was dishevelled, the depraved look in glowing eyes as he stared down at her. The way they had darkened with the promise of more to come—

“Girl! The front door!”

Harri nearly tumbled from the sink in surprise as the screeching of her aunt broke the reverie, reality rudely coming back to her.

She blinked at her reflection, taken back by the starstruck expression— vaguely, she was reminded of a deer caught in headlights. A firm shake of her head to attempt to banish the turn her thoughts had taken, to stop the unwanted flutters in her chest. 'Not the time, Harri,' reason reprimanded as she bounded down the carpeted stairs. 'Not the time.'

Resolutely, any and all feelings regarding a certain Dark Lord were filed away, determined to deal with them in the future. 

Far, far, _far_ in the future, if at all possible.

“Got it, Aunt Petunia,” she called over her shoulder, yanking open the front door and almost groaning.

Darkening 4 Privet Drive’s doorstep was, once again, her second least favourite person at the moment— Severus Snape. A vindictive thought briefly crossed her mind to slam the door on him. However, when she saw Moody slowly trailing up the sidewalk, she reconsidered.

After all, the auror, albeit a bit intense, wasn’t the one that deserved to be on the receiving end of her temper. Plus, the man had helped her a fair amount during the tournament, choosing to put his weight, his faith, in her rather than Diggory— a show of loyalty that earned him a few brownie points in her book.

“Professors,” she muttered in greeting.

Apprehension caused her shoulders to tense at how quiet they both were in turn— Snape had given a stiff nod whereas Mad-Eye only grunted.

The last time they were here, they had left her stranded in the middle of suburbia under Dumbledore’s direct orders— and how it caused dread to thrive in her as to what this particular visit might entail.

Reluctantly, Harri opened the door wider to let them in, thinking it was preferable that the odd-looking men were inside rather than loitering on the front lawn for all the neighbours to see. A jerky nod as an indication for the pair to follow— she led them into the pastel yellow kitchen just in time for Petunia to drift out of the den.

Upon seeing the wizards crowd the narrow hallway, the woman blinked once before her pointed features pinched in disgust. A glare, sharp and stern, was directed towards her niece who had instinctively shuffled a step away. It was a look that relayed there were to be consequences later, to expect a longer than usual list of chores and to be exiled to a locked room for the rest of the evening.

And how that caused something dark to thrive in the young witch— a bitterness on her tongue and an ache in her teeth. Of course, though, she would never act on such spite.

Couldn’t, in fact— at least, not until she turned 17 and found sanctuary at Grimmauld Place or the Burrow.

Petunia sniffed once before shrieking up the stairs, “Dudley! We’re going out!” 

Harri awkwardly avoided looking at the two professors, gaze bouncing about the kitchen as they waited in silence—the shuffling for keys in the catchall dish, the heavy footfalls on the stairs. A distant question asking what was happening and a sharp hiss in response. 

The front door slammed shut.

“Sorry about that. She’s um—,” Harri muttered, trailing off as Snape pulled a chair out from the kitchen table— its feet squeaked against the linoleum.

"A ray of sunshine?" Mad-Eye supplied with a scoff.

She nearly smiled at that as Severus sent the man an exasperated glare.

Unlike the other teacher, Moody chose to lean against the far counter rather than take a seat— in fact, he seemed rather preoccupied with Petunia’s prized coffeemaker, his fingers curiously trailing over the knobs. There was a soft exclamation of delight when the machine suddenly whirred to life, his good eye dancing with glee as he pointed excitedly to it.

Harri looked over in confusion and was, faintly, fondly, reminded of Arthur Weasley. 

She finally took the seat opposite of Snape, trying her best to temper her resentfulness. "So?"

“You will not be taking the train next week,” Severus explained as he considered the crestfallen expression of the girl.

A hand was held up before she could interrupt him, the oncoming protest evident in the drawn corners of her mouth. “Dumbledore has deemed it best if you were apparated directly to the school instead.”

The potions master's attention was drawn to Mad-Eye— the wizard ambling about the kitchen and touching all manner of things in wonder— and the racket he was creating. “A professor will be here this Friday to escort you to the castle.”

An unbidden sigh of relief escaped her as the building tension, the dread, deflated. 

She had been so certain that the sour-faced man was going to declare that she wouldn’t be returning at all— that Dumbledore saw fit to keep her behind the blood wards for another year as an added precaution. A bright grin flourished, chest feeling airy and light. ‘This Friday,’ her thoughts buzzed in anticipation, ‘and I’ll be back.’

Harri could already picture it— the soft four-postered bed, all the treacle tart she could eat. The trips to Hogsmeade on the weekends, back to learning magic—

“Potter. What is that?”

Snape’s careful inflection on her last name made her wince.

It was the same tone the professor always used whenever he was ready to reprimand her and to demand to know if the head on her shoulders was empty— it was a condition at this point to expect harsh words to follow. Green eyes regarded him in confusion, trying to figure out what she could have done during the entirety of their 15-minute conversation— one in which she had been a perfectly innocent participant in. 

But then she noticed how he had honed in on her shirt’s neckline. There was an alarmed curiosity bright in those coal eyes, a shrewd assessment.

'Oh. _That_.'

Before she could tell him it was nothing— claim that it was a mosquito bite she had scratched at a tad too hard or a burn from a hair straightener— a sallow hand had darted out.

Yanking aside the collar, his mouth thinned in outrage.

“You foolish girl,” he hissed, scanning scathingly over the tender redness of the mark and the infection already starting to settle in the indentations. “How long has it been like this?”

“It’s nothing,” she retorted back, voice taking on a defensive edge.

"How did this even happen?"

Heat crept across her cheeks, steadily rising to her ears, as she floundered for an explanation— mortification turned her mind hazy. It wasn’t like she could tell them the truth— it was entirely too ridiculous and far-fetched even by her standards. After all, how was she to explain that the Dark Lord had appeared in her mindscape and, like a monster, had taken a bite out of her? And that it, somehow, also translated over to real life?

The girl figured she might as well just admit to the fact she was crazy, her mind fragile and cracking under pressure— that sounded more plausible anyways.

She scrambled to say something, anything, that might justify the teeth left behind on her neck. “A dog bit me?”

It wasn’t until after the words formed that she realised what had come out in her blind panic. Mentally berating herself with how dumb, how idiotic and false, the excuse was, Harri cursed her inability to lie better. This is exactly why she considered that she would have made a terrible Slytherin, despite the hat’s attempts to convince her otherwise— her ability to think of excuses, to spin convincing stories on the spot, was practically nonexistent. Anyone with half a brain could tell that, quite obviously, those were human teeth littering her skin. 

‘Oh sweet Merlin,’ a miserable thought as the rage in the professor’s eyes was replaced with disbelief, ‘just kill me now.’

“A dog?” Severus echoed, brow raised.

“Uhhhh— yup. A dog.”

And it wasn’t even that Snape was appalled by the fact that she was so blatantly trying to deceive him— but more so that the girl had lied this terribly. Who knew one could fail so miserably in telling a simple white lie? 

Moody had chosen that moment to wander over, abandoning his exploration of the kitchen to see whatever had set Severus on edge. A quick glance at the, admittedly, vicious-looking bite on the girl's neck, at Potter’s humiliated face, the bright dusting of pink on her cheeks— it was all too easy to guess what had actually happened. A delighted smile as the magic eye stilled in its whirring path.

“Well now, that must ‘ave been some dog, eh Potter?”

Loud, unrestrained laughter filled the kitchen and Harri sank further down into the chair, face deepening to a darker scarlet. 

A grisly hand landed on a thin shoulder, a playful shake at the expense of her embarrassment.

“Maybe dear old Snape here will heal it for you?” he suggested, falsely apologetic as he watched Severus's face turn stormy, enjoying provoking the sour-faced man far too much. "I’d do it myself but I’ve never been good at healing."

Snape mumbled about hormonal teenagers and how he was nothing more than a glorified babysitter before brandishing his wand. He had little choice, after all, considering the wound was already festering.

Motioning for her to lean in, his tone just slightly resentful, “Episkey.”

He frowned when nothing had happened— the wound remained as angry looking as before. It was odd but Severus could have sworn he felt some resistance to his magic, had seen a shimmer dance over the bite in the face of his casting.

“Episkey,” he repeated with a tad more force, frown deepening upon seeing the rippling wave of light once more.

Despite his intention and will, the skin refused to knit back together. Whatever had happened to the girl wasn’t muggle by any means— if that was the case, even the simplest healing charm should have cleared the infection. 

Snape leaned back in his chair, eyes glinting in a calculating manner. “Must have been some dog, indeed.”

* * *

* * *

After the professors left, Snape doling out strict orders to continue to clean the deepest parts of the impression and have Pomfrey look at it the second she arrived at Hogwarts, Harri could have sworn she died several times from embarrassment. 

It had taken ages for the mortified blush to calm down, the earlier joy at being able to return to Hogwarts just slightly diminished by the entire ordeal.

And as she lay in bed, face buried in a ratty pillow with too little stuffing and screaming in flustered rage, she desperately wished to see Voldemort— to punch him in his face and, perhaps, even kick him for the embarrassment he had caused her. Whatever he did couldn’t be healed by normal magic—and that fact alone was more than a touch unnerving. It wasn’t as though her professor’s abilities were anything to scoff at, his skills far exceeding her own. Yet, he had failed not once but _twice_. 

For the first time since his rebirth, since seeing him explode in sporadic bursts of light in the damp chamber, Harri willingly concentrated on the image of his face— his voice, his presence. The girl commanded, willed, her dreams to carry her to him, desperate to appear in that damned study.

* * *

* * *

“Ah, Harri.” 

She spun on the spot only to find him in an armchair, his left leg crossed over the right— a book was cradled in one hand while a glass of amber liquid dangled in the other.

The Dark Lord hadn’t even looked up as he continued to read, the book’s pages turning of their own admission. “I was wondering when you would show.”

She stopped short.

For some reason, seeing him so casual, knowing that this was the _real_ Voldemort— and not one cleverly conjured up by her subconscious— felt inherently wrong. He should be out there, murdering people and overthrowing the Ministry— not sitting in a study, enjoying a glass of scotch and a novel. How human he looked right now, how relaxed. How comfortable. 

It was off-putting— her stomach clenched.

Harri approached him cautiously, hesitant and armed with the knowledge that whatever happened in these dreams would apparently happen in real life as well. She paused just behind his shoulder, unsure of what exactly to do or to say next.

Voldemort took a swig from his glass in an attempt to hide the growing smirk, her thoughts all too loudly projected— all but practically _screaming_ at him. As it currently stood, the girl had yet to figure out that nothing was safe from him here, not while they were in his mind. Every thought, every feeling was laid bare before him, free for his perusal and dissection— and a part of him determined that’s the way it should always be. After all, whatever was hers should also be his by proxy, by right. 

‘So nervous and cautious. She’s certainly a flighty little thing,’ he mused, gesturing with the glass to a second conjured armchair. It was identical to the one he was currently sitting in.

He tried to hide how pleased he was when she warily took the offered seat, how satisfied that she had listened. And if someone were to say he was purposefully dragging the silence out, thrilled by her watching him with barely concealed curiosity, the way he could feel her heartbeat a second to his own and spiking in its rhythm as she traced over his profile—well, who could blame him? 

After a few moments, having decided that was enough of torturing the girl, he snapped the book closed before waving it away. 

It floated past them, slotting back into its rightful place on the shelf.

The Dark Lord turned in his chair to evenly meet the green eyes of the witch sitting at his side, crimson gaze flickering for a second as he took in the slowly healing mark on her neck. Smug pride settled warmly in his chest upon seeing it, his claim lay exposed for all the world to see— for them to realise that the girl they mistakenly thought belonged to them was, undeniably, his.

“What,” her voice started out unsteady but gradually found its strength, its boldness, “did you do to me? And don’t even think for a second about giving me some cryptic, bullshit answer."

Harri fixed him in a stare that she hoped would relay how serious she was— how she wasn’t here to engage in whatever twisted game that he wanted to play. Arms crossed defiantly over her chest, her spine straightening in a valiant attempt to appear taller than she actually was.

Voldemort leaned back, eyes contemplative as he observed the girl in front of him. ‘How endearing,’ a lazy, passing thought as he studied the faux show of bravery and how she was attempting to chastise him as though he were a misbehaving child. ‘She’s trying to show her claws.’

A slow, cutting smile, fingers steepled as he uncrossed his legs. “You needed proof that this wasn’t a figment of your imagination— so I gave you some.”

He knew he was purposefully baiting her, mind already turning as he tested his boundaries with his horcrux in attempts to figure out where the line was drawn between them. How much could he get away with in terms of teasing, of goading, until she snapped? And how much could she get away before inspiring his own temper? 

It was an entirely new game— one full of grey tentative areas— that thrilled and excited him beyond all reason.

“Yes, I already know that!” her voice pitched in exasperation, left eye twitching minutely as she struggled to keep her composure.

A shaky exhale betrayed her waning patience.

“Instead of pinching me awake or drawing on my hand like any sane, normal person would, you bit me. Which, by the way, hurts like crazy and didn’t stop bleeding for hours. Snape tried to heal it—” She bit her tongue at his unexpected, thunderous expression. 

But she blinked and it was gone.

Such a look had been schooled back into the mischievous mask he was wearing prior, the one that relayed a congenial mood.

Harri faltered, suddenly uncertain— warning bells were going off in rapid succession. Every instinct was screaming for her to remember that this was the Dark Lord, Voldemort— a man who had no qualms about attempting to kill her in the past and most certainly wouldn’t now.

He tried to reign back his anger, the tempestuous wrath threatening to override his control, upon hearing Severus’s name so casually fall from her lips. The Dark Lord still hadn’t completely forgiven the man for his insolence, for interfering with his plans— and now, it seemed, he had even gone as far as trying to erase his mark from her. Voldemort filed the information away— a conversation to be had at a later date whenever he saw the man next.

But for now, he had to focus on getting his temper under control before it caused any damage. It wouldn't do, after all, to have the girl even more terrified of him—not yet at least.

Voldemort plastered on a pleasant smile, the look not quite reaching his eyes. “Well, I can not say I’m entirely surprised to hear that he failed to heal it.”

A brief thought crossed his mind, a daring plan, and he leaned forward in the chair closer to her. "But I can."

"You'd do that?" she asked, skeptical.

"Of course. All you have to do is leave the blood wards, Harri.” 

She couldn’t quite help but scoff at the idea, slumping down into her seat as she glared at him incredulously. His audacity, his gall and nerve, were almost unbearable. ‘Great,’ she thought in rising annoyance, ‘he’s toying with me.’ 

But at least he had confirmed one thing for her, had answered the singularly most burning question she had— the wards definitely worked and he couldn't get around them. 'Guess I should apologise to Dumbledore."

“Oh yeah, wonderful idea,” she mumbled, not quite being able to resist the urge to roll her eyes.“And then the second I do, you finally get your wish to murder the ‘Girl Who Lived’. What a perfect plan.”

The Dark Lord drank in her words greedily, the cheshire grin on his face doing little to hide his mounting amusement. He debated almost telling her everything right then and there— how his plans had changed completely. How he wanted nothing more than to cage her, to keep her locked away so no one else would dare to look upon what wasn’t theirs. 

To make her understand that they were one and the same— the same soul, the same magic, the same _everything_. 

Instead, however, he settled for a soft chuckle, downing the rest of the scotch from his glass. “It was worth a shot. Oh, come now, do not begrudge me for trying.”

He rose to stand in front of the fireplace, his mind willing the flames to rise higher from the dying coals. They obediently listened. 

Voldemort could practically feel the weight of her stare, the caution and interest in it as she tracked his movements. ‘Perfect.’

“Did you know that parselmouths aren’t entirely human?” he began slowly, fingers interlaced behind his back. “That our anatomy is actually different from other wizards? Our palates are uniquely shaped to allow us to communicate with varying snake breeds, to make the sibilance vocable and more magnified. These palates are formed at an early age in our adolescence, hardening as we grow into adults.”

“Why do you think that there are a distinct lack of spells to replicate parseltongue? It’s nearly impossible to do so.” He turned towards her, eyes glinting in satisfaction at her look of rapture— the vaguest sense of superiority overcame him. “Of course, the palates in our mouths aren’t the only thing to change as we progress into adulthood. For example, it is a cleverly guarded little secret that parselmouths eventually develop venom— that our bites can be lethal.”

It took Harri a second to process what he was implying— that he had injected _venom_ into her. Suddenly, it made sense as to why his canines had felt sharper, elongated and curved, as they had burrowed into her neck. Why the wound had stung so badly, ceasing to die down in its angered inflammation— why the bleeding refused to abate for an entire day as a clot struggled to form.

Green eyes widened in barely concealed horror. 

Her hand flew to her neck and clamped desperately over the wound. “You-!”

“Of course,” he interrupted her, relishing far too much in the alarm dancing in those emerald eyes. 

He hadn’t failed to notice the way her hand had begun to shake as it clutched her neck’s pulse point. ‘So naive yet so endearing.’

“It wouldn’t kill another parselmouth. But I’m afraid.” His smile grew wider at the way she had readily slumped in relief and he tsked with false regret. “Without an antidote, the healing process can be quite slow.”

“And of course, normal magic has a rather tricky time dealing with parselmagic. The two are oil and water— very temperamental,” he crooned, his grin all teeth as he devoured the conflicting emotions warring across her face.

She sprang from the armchair to stand in front of him, her slight frame barely reaching his shoulder, chest puffed in righteous anger. Part of her couldn’t even believe what she was hearing, what he was admitting to and the degree of the culpability behind his actions. That, as if biting her wasn’t bad enough, he had to go the extra length to introduce venom into her system— one that was entirely of his own making.

“How did you know it wouldn’t kill me then!?” Her eyes flashed in the fire’s light, the glow in them an unearthly green in the wake of her accusation.

The tolerance for the Dark Lord’s antics was slowly dwindling, fear ebbing away into something far more potent— _anger_. The laugh escaping his chest, the belittling smirk, his casual body language all served to only make her blood pressure spike. Fists balled at her side, nails sinking into her palms.

“Oh Harri, I have my sources.” 

Voldemort found that he couldn’t quite resist gloating his connections, his power— that he could find any information he so possibly wished, especially when it concerned her. "The younger Malfoy, Draco I believe his name is, told me all about the stunt you pulled in your second year. It shocked me, I must admit, to hear we shared the ability. After all, I had thought that I was the only one left in Europe, at the very least.”

His voice lowered to a whisper, leaning down slightly to crowd her, “So from one parselmouth to another, I would fully recommend that you do not go around biting people for now. After all, you wouldn’t want a nasty little accident to occur, would you?”

Her jaw dropped as she registered his words, a mental note being made to make Draco wish he was dead the next time they saw each other. ‘The slimy git,’ she fumed as the hairs on her arm stood on end. The girl tried to calm herself down, to not do something she may regret later— it was a futile effort, the last cords of her tolerance fraying and twisting.

Through clenched teeth, she grit out, the civility in her voice long gone, “You said there was an antidote to make it heal faster. Where is it?”

The smile sliding the corners of his mouth upwards could only be described in one way— a shit-eating grin. 

“It’s around. I would summon it for you, Harri, but you see.” His brows knitted together in a mock show of remorse, somehow managing to look both dismayed and delighted. “My mind is currently so fatigued that I’m having trouble concentrating at the moment.”

If it was even possible at this point, she could have sworn her eyes widened further— an owlish stare of disbelief. The girl looked pointedly over at the roaring fire, the one that had been dead a few minutes prior, at the book that had been magically slotted into the shelf, before turning back to an all too pleased Dark Lord. He looked as though he were a cat who got his cream, the obvious lie causing Harri’s hands to twitch. 

Her mouth shut with a firm click, fury bubbling in the spaces between her ribs at the blatant refusal to help her in any way, shape, or form.

That green gaze narrowed, hands clenching and unclenching in a physical outlet to ground herself— to find her calm. 

It was pointless.

She was so sick of him walking all over her, treating her like a toy meant for his entertainment— the way he just had to keep on ruining everything.

Whenever something was wrong at this point in her life, it always featured him at the centre. And yet, the man had the gall to stand there, teasing her with a carrot dangled just out of reach with his glittering eyes and the stupid plush mouth manipulated into a fake, sympathetic frown.

Harri tried to count to 10, tried to reign in her anger, to find the composure— Snape’s voice floated in the back of her mind, berating her for being entirely too reckless. Unfortunately, it was a regrettable truth to her personality that controlling her emotions, particularly anger, was an area she fell short in.

So when her hand raised of its own free will to his left cheek, the sting in her palm bringing her back to the reality of what she had done, Harri couldn’t say she fully regretted it. 

After all, it felt good to make him see her— to wipe that damning smirk from his face.

But then it sank in— she just _struck_ the Dark Lord. 

The girl watched in numb horror as he stared back, equally shocked. His own hand rose to his jaw to rub it in an absentminded stupor.

To say that Voldemort was stunned— his mind trying to process the fact that she had _slapped_ him— would be an understatement. It hadn’t hurt— oh no. He doubted it could even if she wanted it to considering how small his horcrux was. But it was still enough to give him pause. 

Lesser men would have already been dead for raising a hand to him— but, then again, she wasn’t exactly lesser, was she? Wasn’t exactly someone that he could punish normally, to push them until they begged for his forgiveness under torture— to tear down their mind and body.

Truly, he had been debating on giving her the balm to soothe the bite, having wanted to just push her a bit further for his own delight. But now? 

Not a chance in hell.

And— oh, he had just figured out the perfect punishment. Let her suffer from both pain and embarrassment. It was no skin off his back, after all, if she was mortified, ashamed— if she ached and was miserable for the next few weeks. ‘Fine,’ his thoughts were dark, tinged with a biting savageness, ‘let it heal on its own.’

From the way she was considering him, caution and terror alight in her eyes, his horcrux was expecting him to retaliate— to maim or possibly kill her. 

He flashed her a predatory smile, too cutting and too sharp. 

Too many teeth.

Part of him did admire her for the bravery, for the brashness and unpredictability— it kept him on his toes, his mind constantly moving. She was proving to be his greatest distraction, a refreshing relief from the simpering sycophants surrounding him— in small doses, that is. 

But then another part of him, unholy and vile, wanted to break her of that spirit— to drive it from her as though it were a demon waiting to be exorcised. To make it so she could never rebel against him. 

To cut her wings, mellow her defiance— make her _bend_ to him.

She would soon enough.

“Oh, Harri, Harri,” he mused, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. “What a temper.”

To say he didn’t enjoy the way she had begun to tremble slightly— looking nervously towards the door and muscles tensed as though she was prepared to sprint— would be entirely false. 

He _adored_ it. 

It was a heady power knowing she wasn’t entirely without fear, mindscape or not. That _he_ could bring it out of her.

“It would be best if you woke up now, little one,” the Dark Lord said ominously as he crowded closer to her, hand darting out to grip her chin and forcing her to look up.

Voldemort savoured the petrified light entering her eyes, fascinated with how they turned into a vivid, toxic shade of green in their distress. That darkness in his chest sang to see more— to reveal all of her masks so she would never be able to hide from him. 

His grip tightened ever so slightly before dropping away. 

The world around them had begun to bleed, the colours blurring as the study’s furniture dematerialized. 

His horcrux was already beginning to turn transparent as her mind started to stir, urgently recalling her consciousness back to her body.

“Oh, and Harri?” A knowing vindictive glint held in crimson depths. “I do hope you enjoy the school year. While you still can, that is.”


	10. Back To Hogwarts We Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just a reminder that I've aged Harri up a bit and we are currently in her 6th year! This does stray a bit from the cannon so Barty is still Moody + teaching and Umbridge isn't at the school.
> 
> Seriously, thank you so so so so much for all of the past comments and likes! They mean so much 💕

* * *

* * *

Harri had spent the rest of the week in a frenzied rush to get her minimal belongings in order. Friday was fast approaching and, as she wrestled her trunks from the tight space of the closet, huffing in agitation when they wouldn’t budge, she only felt trepidation. Voldemort’s ominous warning hung over her head, the threat inciting worry as to whether or not he had a plan in motion— if he would manage to find a way to enact revenge, to reap his divine retribution. After all, she reasoned as the luggage finally popped free, that physically slapping him was bound to appear on an itemized list of “Reasons to Destroy Harri Potter”. In her consciousness, Snape’s sneering of ‘foolish girl’ looped, the phantom voice demanding to know if she had a death wish or if her head was just empty.

A ghost of a chill as the look in hellfire eyes materialised, the shocked delay in them as he processed what she had done— the cold fury that expressed how he had wanted nothing more than to finish what had been started, to tear her throat out with his teeth, to revel in her blood. A hand strayed to gently trace over the mark still on her throat, prominently displayed. Though the bite had begun to slowly heal, and the inflammation had gone down tenfold, the skin was still tender— a glossy pink with new growth. Wistfulness glazed over her thoughts when a finger passed over the deepest divot, an impression of curved canines.

It had been a shocking revelation, to say the least, to learn that she was apparently venomous— something she probably would have never known if not for Voldemort deciding to clue her in on a parselmouth trade secret. An unbidden shiver as she tried to ignore the gruesome scenario in which she could have accidentally bitten someone. And for once, the girl was actually grateful that she didn’t have a boyfriend-- constantly worrying about slipping up and killing him would have definitely put a damper on the entire relationship. 

‘Well,’ she thought morbidly, rolling up the tee-shirt laid flat against the worn mattress, ‘at least now I know I’ll be single forever. Maybe I should become a nun.’ A stray image of a handsome man, red eyes and high cheekbones, completely unbidden and unwelcomed. She pushed it away hastily. This wasn’t the time to delve into all of the morally wrong aspects of a theoretical relationship with him, the inherent wrongness and sin that would arise from such a match. After all, he may currently have Tom Riddle’s face but he was still Lord Voldemort— a murderer, a fanatic, the one who had killed her parents and attempted, on several occasions, to do the same to her. ‘Plus’, a dry passing thought, ‘pretty sure he wants my head on a spike now more than ever.’ Harri groaned in exasperation, tossing the bundle into the open trunk with aggression. Nothing could ever be simple in her life, could it?

* * *

* * *

At precisely 5 pm in the evening, the front doorbell to number 4 Privet Drive rang and the witch had nearly tripped during her scramble down the stairs. After all, she had been waiting all day for an indication someone was coming, ready to take her away from the muggle world, liberate her from the Dursley’s pastel nightmare, and return her to her rightful place— her home. When the front door swung open, much to her relief, it was to the kind face of McGonagall. The shrewd gaze of the transfiguration professor softened a touch as her attention drifted from the quiet neighbourhood, with its identical houses in a row and white picket fences, to the girl vibrating on the front step.

“Harri, good evening,” the professor’s half-moon glasses caught the lamppost’s yellowed light, a forced smile pulling on thin lips that betrayed her nervousness, “Are you all ready? Trunks packed?” 

Green eyes spared a hesitant glance over her shoulder and down the narrow hallway, heart skipping a beat as she spied her old room beneath the stairs. The sliding grate and bolt still tacked on to the painted wood, a remnant of a childhood spent in the dark, in the dust. Against all reason, everything in her was warring against the idea of letting the older witch into the house, to subject her to the other reality she was forced to live every summer. To expose the professor to the foul mood of the Dursleys, to be tainted by their hatred and toxicity. And Harri most certainly didn’t want the woman to see the spartan room— one that she had been reluctantly moved to once she had grown too tall to fit in the cupboard.

Swallowing thickly past the lump in the hollow of her throat, the girl attempted to plaster on a smile that didn’t betray her anxiety, “Yes, professor. I um, I’ll go grab my trunk if you want to wait here for a moment.”

Keen eyes clung to the way the girl’s hand had tightened around the doorknob, a sharp gaze over a thin shoulder into the hallway at the sound of harsh laughter and music. McGonagall, expression pinched, gave a slight nod, an acquiescing encouragement. It was all too clear that the girl hadn’t wanted her in the house and she wasn’t going to argue otherwise— especially if it meant avoiding Petunia and Vernon Dursley. The woman had met the unfortunate pair once, spent an entire day observing them as a stray house cat on their fence, and had come to the rightful conclusion that they were the worst sort of humans— muggle or not.

A few minutes later found Harri hauling her trunks down the carpeted steps and out onto the manicured front lawn, all too eager to leave. Naturally, there had been no exchange of goodbyes, of heartfelt sentiments to have a good year, from her relatives— and that was fine by her. Harri shot the professor a grateful smile as a featherlight charm settled over the weighty luggage, grasping gently at the frail arm held out in a silent offer. A tug at her navel and Privet Drive ebbed away into nothingness, her body squeezed through a vacuum of space.

* * *

* * *

It had been a blink of an eye, and then there it was. The glittering silhouette of tall spires, blackened against the brilliant orange fade of the sunset. An impressive ancient sight, a place that hummed with energy, with magic, as though it were alive. And as they crossed the long bridge, some kind of pleasant warmth settled over her bare arms, the wards welcoming her in a hug as an old friend. She was finally home. 

Dumbledore had been waiting for the pair in front of the Great Hall and Harri couldn’t even summon the usual resentment towards the twinkle in the man’s pale eyes, heart too light with euphoria, with joy and elation. The feeling of the magic residing in the castle’s halls, the pleasant crackle of it dancing between the spaces of her fingers, lighting up her nerve endings— it was enough to make her sing. 

“Harri, my dear girl, I presume that you had an enjoyable summer?” a cheerful question that was in direct conflict to the sharpness in his gaze.

The headmaster was sporting an unholy combination of purple and orange robes, white daisies sporadically placed across the brocade fabric. He was eyeing her in critical assessment, almost as if trying to determine if she had grown a mysterious limb since they last saw each other, to determine if there were any remarkable changes. An observant stare hovered, almost insistently, over the slowly healing wound hidden under the collar— as though he could see through the fabric— before bouncing back to her face. There was tightness in the corners of his mouth, a forced quality in the saccharine smile. 

Harri shifted awkwardly, almost reaching to tug the fabric up higher when she remembered what she was wearing. It was always cooler on the school grounds, even in the late summer, so she had opted for a black short sleeve turtleneck-- it served to ward off the chilly breeze rolling from the lake and, bonus, it hid the still rather noticeable imprint. ‘He can’t know, can he?’ a worried thought, a sense of sudden unease in the wake of his scrutiny. The girl cleared her throat, tongue heavy and not quite willing to respond to his question, mind turning over with spite. Her summer was not pleasant, and, in fact, had been quite the opposite— he, of all people, should know it, considering their yearly routine of pleading and bargaining to go to Grimmauld Place, to the Burrow, to anywhere but Surrey.

“Professor,” finally finding her voice, glancing at the empty Great Hall, having arrived far earlier than her classmates, “Why couldn’t I have just ridden the train with everyone else?” 

That grimness around his mouth had reached his eyes, the twinkling fading behind crescent glasses, “Just a precaution, my dear. Hopefully, it was unwarranted but still better to be on the safe side.”

* * *

* * *

As it turned out, the precaution was indeed fully warranted. Later in the evening, as Harri slid into the bench wordlessly next to Neville, the usual enthusiastic chatter of the Great Hall was quite subdued. It was unnerving, as she regarded the tables, how some looked especially empty— the mass of curly brown hair and a shock of ginger missing amongst the Gryffindors. A frown crossed her features, briefly wondering if they had missed the Express, a bitterness on her tongue. After all, she had prepared quite a speech for them, to demand to know why they had given her the cold shoulder.

Having changed into her house robes prior to everyone’s scattered arrivals, she tapped her friend’s shoulder imploringly, “Hey Nev, what’s happened?”

The boy jolted, eyes growing fractionally wider as he took in the redheaded girl at his side, surprise evident in the way his mouth had parted, “Blimey, Harri! I thought you weren’t coming, that they-”

His explanation was cut off, words dying on the tip of his tongue as Dumbledore abruptly clapped his hands and stepped up to the podium.

“As many of you are already aware,” his voice boomed over the hush of the Hall, an eerie echo of what had occurred at the end of last year, “several Ministry officials halted tonight’s train bound for Hogwarts in order to enact upon a mandatory inspection. Several students were forcibly removed from their seats for perceived infractions against the Ministry’s newest mandates.” 

A weight settled heavily in the pit of her stomach, brows knitting together in confusion as she reflected on the words. ‘Ministry officials’ was easy enough to piece together to mean Death Eaters, followers in disguise that were flourishing with Malfoy as Minister— but what mandates? ‘What happened,’ she wondered as the whispering amongst the students began in earnest, ‘while I was gone?’

“I wish to remind all of you in light of this,” the headmaster continued and Harri contemplated if he had always looked this tired, this frail, this exhausted, “that the grounds of Hogwarts have been declared a neutral zone, exempt from enforcing such edicts. Never before in its history has Hogwarts denied students of nonmagical origin the right to an education nor will it start to do so. Rest assured that these students will be brought back and granted asylum within the castle, if they so wish.” 

And then he retreated from the podium, the solemn hush over the hall slowly breaking through the smattering of whispers. Green eyes trailed further down the benches, frowning at the pinched expression on Ginny’s face— it told her everything she needed to know. Ron had remained behind with Hermione in a fierce show of loyalty to the witch. When food began to appear on the tables, Harri found herself unable to eat any of it, appetite nonexistent, and the ability to converse with her housemates diminished. ‘Death Eaters,’ a numb thought, ‘were on the Express. If I had been on it-’. Alarmed, attention fixated on the slumped form of Dumbledore, the headmaster whispering urgently to McGonagall at his side. ‘He knew this was going to happen.’ 

Some part of her considered marching up to him right then and there, other students be damned, to demand what he all knew— to confront him, question him about what else he was keeping from her. After all, it wasn’t a coincidence at this point and the headmaster was obviously withholding vital information. However, the weight of a stare, insistent and heavy, drew her attention from the older wizard to an apprehensive pale gaze. Draco Malfoy looked waned, complexion bordering on waxy, and bruising circles under his eyes that spoke volumes to the current state of his mind. Harri considered she should feel some form of sympathy— the boy had never looked this terrible before, this drained, this tired. But then the words of Voldemort came rushing back to her, the gloating manner in which he revealed that the Slytherin had told him all about their duel. ‘What else did he let slip?’ the swirl of an embittered thought, eyes narrowing in distrust, in distaste. As if sensing the resentment rolling off of the girl, Malfoy shuddered, attention slipping from her and back to his plate.

* * *

* * *

Harri had refused to sleep, the dorm feeling oddly empty without Hermione in it, too cold, too lonely. Lavender had tried to convince her to come to bed, justifying that they didn’t even know when their roommate would be returning— but she still couldn’t allow it. ‘What if this is Voldemort’s revenge? That he’s trying to punish me by taking away Hermione? Ron?’ Once that line of thinking had begun, she couldn’t stop it, the obsession causing it to snowball, to overwhelm and consume. The girl had been pacing about the carpeted length of the common room, wearing holes into the ornate Persian rugs, reprimanding herself for being so stupid, so foolish, during their last meeting. After all, what kind of reckless fool slaps a Dark Lord? To goad and bait him? The warning of his wouldn’t leave her in peace, a vulture about her mind, that hateful sneer imposed behind closed lids.

The portrait door abruptly creaked open. It was after 2 in the morning when a small group of students were ushered into the Gryffindor common room, a grim quiet affair. The waned faces were shuttered in disbelief, weary after what was supposed to be an evening of enjoyment and blissful reunions had turned into a nightmare. McGonagall, in a dressing robe and greying hair in a frayed braid, looked almost identical to her flock of charges-- haggard and beyond the point of exhaustion.

The redheaded witch was sprinting over in an instant, arms thrown wide around her best friend, relieved to see her unharmed, the earlier fury at being forgotten over the summer dissipating in the glow of her safety. A silent prayer was sent to every unknown god, every deity, every being in the universe, a wordless expression of gratitude. Hermione returned the embrace, arms lifting tiredly and tears in the corners of her eyes as she let herself sink into the petite frame. Ron hovered awkwardly on their periphery, a half-smile that was sheepishly returned.

* * *

* * *

Harri had waited to question Hermione until the morning, until the girl had a chance to recover from the shock at being dragged off the train, and until she could have her first cup of coffee. She figured it was best that way— to let the witch process and calm down before being bombarded with inquiries. Shortly after the late-night arrival, the girls had fallen asleep, curled on a single bed, and content to bask in the knowledge the other was safe.

As it currently stood, the pair was seated in the Great Hall, sporting equally ghastly shadows under their eyes. The morning’s sun was weak, watery, entirely too dim, and the silence stretched until she finally gathered the courage to break it, “What happened, ‘Mione? What’s been happening?” 

Hermione stilled, fingers tightening around the mug as she regarded the redheaded girl across from her, the way those green eyes shone with a concern that she felt she didn’t entirely deserve. After all, she hadn’t even sent a single letter all summer, not even one for her birthday, under the explicit instructions of Dumbledore. It had been eating away at her, the thought of a girl, one who just desperately wanted to be shown love, believing that she had been abandoned by her closest friends. And though she knew, logically, the headmaster was correct, that the post was easily intercepted and could make Harri vulnerable, it did little to lessen the hollow ache of guilt.

“We were halfway to Hogwarts when they boarded and demanded to see our wands. And Ron, the brave idiot he is, wouldn’t leave when they forced me to get off. Dumbledore apparently met with Minister Malfoy to negotiate us into being allowed to come back here, claiming they had no right to intercept the train in the first place,” she mumbled after a shaky sip of lukewarm coffee, hard to swallow around the rising regret, the remorse.

A hand suddenly shot across the table, gripping her friend’s, tears heavy on fanned lashes, “Oh, Harri, I’m so sorry. Dumbledore told us not to contact you, saying we couldn’t trust the owls. I wanted to write to you so much and it was just awful not being able to. Everything’s changing, the new rules, the constant mandates, and-.”

Hermione leaned closer, breakfast forgotten as caramel eyes spared a nervous glance over her shoulder, voice a whisper, “I saw it. The men on the train, they had the Dark Mark on their arms. They were Death Eaters, You-Know-Who’s followers. And I think they were looking for something else— I think they were looking for you. Oh, Harri, they looked so disappointed, so terrified, when they finished searching the train and you weren’t there.” 

Attention fixated on the cooling gelatinous mass of oatmeal, stomach lurching at the sight. She pushed it away with one hand, mind turning over the admittance. Though she knew it was probably the safest thing to do, that it was probably right in not trusting the owls, it still stung nonetheless that Dumbledore had his claws in her friends as well. But yet, it all seemed petty, distant— especially so in the wake of what just had happened. Death Eaters were now so blatantly placed in positions of power, able to move freely without consequences, their master hidden in the shadows.

Hermione had just confirmed it— that the ‘ministry officials’ had stopped the train all because of her. That’s what it always came back to in the end though, didn’t it? To the tangled web between her and Voldemort, the never-ending chase and messy aftermath that arose from their existence. An ominous warning and vindictive gaze flashed in the back of her mind. He had threatened Hogwarts, the peacefulness of her school year, her home. And no small part of her knew the unsettling truth that this was just the beginning.

A quick squeeze to her friend’s hand, voice grim, “It’s okay, ‘Mione. I know.” 

* * *

* * *

“You were correct in your assumptions, My Lord. The girl wasn’t aboard the Express.”

Voldemort barely registered the words as he scratched away on the scroll of parchment in front of him, already knowing she wouldn’t be. Both of his spies had reported that the girl was to be apparated directly to the school, that Dumbledore deemed the trains would no longer be safe. In fact, he only sent his followers after it in the vaguest hope that Harri would have been defiant, had taken the Express anyways in an act of rebellion— after all, it wouldn’t be quite out of her character to do so. The plume stilled as he watched in contemplation the way the ink bloomed on the period of the note’s final sentence, spreading and fanning outwards greedily. The old fool was cunning, manipulative, frustratingly always one step ahead. But soon it wouldn’t matter.

He had already foreseen the impending downfall of Albus Dumbledore. And how _glorious_ it was. 

Rising from the desk, an introspective light entered crimson eyes as they fixated on the melting emerald wax held above a flame. So, his little horcrux had made it to the safety of Hogwarts— was being hidden away in her stone tower. A soft chuckle at the naive thought that it would be enough to keep him out, to stop him from reclaiming what was rightfully his.

The Dark Lord absentmindedly rolled the missive, reflecting on the girl hovering on the periphery of his consciousness, on the bright flares of her joy. He had sincerely hoped she was currently enjoying her freedom, her little friends, her distance from him. That she was making enough memories to last her a lifetime, the endless eternity that it would be. Because, as it stood, he had plans to remedy all of that. ‘Soon.’ The signet ring was pressed into the hot wax, sealing the note and, a humorless thought, her fate as well. 

“Give this to Severus,” he instructed the kneeling Death Eater, already turning back to his desk, fingers trailing among the scattered papers in an absentminded search of a report.

He paused for a moment, a malevolent smirk lighting up his expression, “Oh, do tell Barty to be quite thorough in his lesson plans. I fear the curriculum at Hogwarts has been suffering as of late, and it would be a shame to waste such potential.”

Reclaiming the seat at the desk, his attention drifted over to the armchairs in front of the mantle. Just a few days ago, they had occupied the very same set in his mindscape, a girl at his side and seeking him out for answers. How natural she had looked in them, how at place among their finery and unnaturally green eyes solely fixated on him. It was where she belonged— and it was exactly where he planned to make her stay.


	11. The Mirror Lake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I just wanted to say you're all amazing and the best readers I could ever ask for! The comments and likes you've been giving this fic has been such a huge motivator for me to write these chapters so thank you <3
> 
> Enjoy <3

* * *

* * *

Severus Snape, by all accounts, would not have considered himself an alcoholic. He wasn’t a fan of hard liquor and despised the way he felt when inebriated, how his control slipped and his tongue seemed too loose. But now, sitting in his office, the lesson plans that he had been labouring over for the following Monday long forgotten, the man desperately considered turning into one. Downing a quick glass of firewhiskey, a repulsed shudder wracking the thin frame when the sting had numbed his throat, a glare was aimed towards the cause of his frustrations. A note, seemingly innocent, lay half curled in on itself amongst the chaos of the desk. The seal had, undoubtedly, been his Lord’s— no other man in Britain would dare to have an ouroboros for a crest, the signet proudly pressed into emerald wax.

In all thirty-odd some of his years, the potions master had been satisfied enough with his ability to never fully commit to one side or the other. He had been content to play the spy for both, always looking out for his own best interests at the end of the day. ‘But,’ a thought formed traitorously, a girl with red hair flashing in his mind’s eye-- the daughter of a woman still festering in his heart, detrimental to his rationality from even beyond the grave, ‘That’s changed, hasn’t it?’ 

Snape poured himself another glass. It finally seemed that the Dark Lord was exhausted of the back-and-forth game the potion’s master had been executing all of these years, that the time had finally come to prove loyalty to a cause. Quite truthfully, the missive had been simple enough in its instructions— on the date of December 20th, at precisely 8 pm in the evening, it was vital he found a way to occupy Dumbledore’s attention long enough for the wards to be dismantled. The underlying message, the implications, however, were painfully transparent.

If he chose to partake in this plan, there was no doubt that it would spell death and chaos within the school’s grounds-- such a thing would be entirely inevitable. And he would have to be blind or willfully ignorant to not notice that the headmaster was beginning to look rather suspiciously frail these days. The once-proud posture now hunched, full cheeks a touch gaunter, the twinkle behind half-moon glasses diminishing. The vigor, the energy, he had always known the man to possess was waning. ‘He will die,’ a grim thought, reflecting back to the now much younger, much stronger, form Voldemort possessed. ‘Especially if he is to face the Dark Lord.’ As great of a wizard Albus Dumbledore may be, the odds were not on his side, perpetually stacked against him. And the one man that Voldemort had always feared, the one man that he had been hesitant to move against, would finally fall— then where would they be? Left to suffer under his whims, his mercies, his volatile temper. 

And the girl, what would happen to her should he let the monster into the castle? Hogwarts was to be her refuge, the one place he wouldn’t be able to touch her should she stay hidden behind the flagstone walls. But if they were to crumble— Severus shuddered in unease, in dismay. A bitter truth, irrefutable. She couldn’t defeat him, not as a mere 16-year-old who hadn’t even fully completed her schooling. ‘But what if,’ the sharp mind began to whir as he eyed the parchment warily, hesitant to voice any thoughts aloud for fear it might listen in, ‘She wasn’t here?’ 

It was an idiotic idea, one might even say completely Gryffindor in nature-- utterly reckless and damningly foolish. Yet, the scheme had begun to already piece itself together all the same. And the unfortunate conclusion quickly made itself known that, should he act upon such a plan, it would most certainly spell a tragic end for himself. But his hypothetical doom wasn’t enough to curb the defiance unfurling in his chest at the image of a pale body cooling, sprawled on the grand front steps-- vivid eyes glassy and unfocused. He had let Lily die, a mistake he was still dearly paying for, his eternal suffering— and Snape wasn’t prepared to let another piece of her, the daughter that should have been his, fall to a man with too much power, too much control. Another glass of startling amber liquid was knocked back, the burn serving to fuel his courage while he plotted.

* * *

* * *

After finishing their breakfast, the girls had meandered slowly back to the dorm, still dressed unashamedly in their pajamas. It had been too early for most students to rouse and, as the pair dipped through the portrait door, it wasn’t a shock to see the common room rather devoid of life. Trudging up to the still darkened bedroom, the soft snores of one Lavender Brown greeting them, Harri shot Hermione a bemused look-- their roommate was always the last to fall asleep and the last to rise. 

“I’m going to shower first,” she whispered, tilting her head towards the bathroom’s door, wincing when it creaked on the hinges.

As the water warmed, the redheaded witch stretched, relishing in the pleasurable cracks in her spine as they chased away the persistent residual discomforts of an awkward sleep. With Hermione around, it had been easy enough to forget the ominous warnings and flashing red eyes, the lingering touches, and elongated canines. But now, as she stood under the shower’s spray, it all came flooding back, summoned forth by the steam and pelting droplets. He had warned her that Hogwarts was going to change, had vindictively instructed her to enjoy it while she still could. And the separation from Hermione, from Ron, not knowing how long they’d be gone— or if they would even be back at all— had rattled her more than she would like to admit. 

Whenever she had dealt with Voldemort in the past, their interactions had always been contained between just the two of them--- the added factor of her friends’ endangerment usually not a pressing concern. A portion of the world carved out for a battle of two equally strong wills, solo players moving on a chessboard. The second crimson eyes met hers, no one else truly mattered, was significant enough to divert her attention away from a cutting smile and toxic magic. It was an unnerving quality he possessed-- his magnetism, the way he could so easily draw her to him, could creep in until only he existed as a darkening stain upon her consciousness. It was always his action, her reaction-- a rhythm that they had perfected, an odd sense of comfort in knowing exactly what to expect. 

Yet, as he had proven last night through the harsh reminder of his influence, everything was about to change. The rules were shifting, the stage broadening, more pawns appearing. And Harri wasn’t entirely sure as to why she was even surprised by such a development. Just last year, he had informed the entire student body of his intent to overthrow their world, had managed to slip a portkey past the school’s wards, and drop it right into her path. But if he had his Death Eaters then who did she have? Who could The Girl Who Lived call upon to engage with his followers, with his soldiers, while she went straight for their king? It was an unsettling concept, stomach lurching when the only images that came to mind were of her, admittedly, small circle of friends. Schoolchildren, those who were still trying to complete their education, mere teenagers. A disturbing reminder that she, herself, was just like them, was also in their shoes. 

‘How are we supposed to fight him?’ her thoughts were grim as the shower’s warmth was cut off, body shivering from a sudden lack of heat. The witch tried to clear the morbid turn her mind had taken, determined to leave such depressing musings behind for now as green eyes scanned the shelves for her pjs. However, the red and gold striped set had completely vanished, were nowhere to be found. ‘House elves.’ 

Harri had been barely two steps out of the door when her ears were assaulted by a high-pitched screech, freezing mid-step in abrupt alarm.

“Oh. My. God. Harri! What is that ?!” Lavender squealed, tone lilting with barely concealed glee as she bounded across the bed, sleep forgotten and honey eyes glowing in scandalised delight. 

A frown tugged on the corners of her mouth, trying to puzzle out as to what had set the blonde on edge when her attention drifted downwards. The towel had done very little to hide the fading impression of teeth on her pulse point, the skin tinged slightly pink around the edges. ‘It almost looks like a-’ coherency halted, a cold wash of mortification. Emerald eyes glanced up in desperation, Lavender nearly vibrating in place from excitement. She was about to deny it all, squash whatever fanciful ideas her roommate had managed to concoct in her warped imagination, when Hermione wandered over, drawn towards the commotion. 

“Harri?” the brown-haired girl questioned, her expression outwardly mature but the redden tips of her ears betraying such an effort.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear-!” she fumbled for words, trying to defend herself, to fend off their misplaced assumptions.

“Well, what it looks like,” Lavender sang, finger prodding at the fading mark with a bright and knowing glint, “Is that somebody had a very pleasurable summer.” 

“That would make two of us,” she tacked on quickly, tone suggestive, a broad smug grin plastered on full lips.

“I swear, Lav-- Wait? What?” Harri could only stare dumbly at the girl before, Hermione echoing the sentiment of confusion.

“ _My_ summer was spent with Cormac McLaggen,” Lavender stressed the syllables on his name, adoration glazing over mirth in doe-like eyes.

“We’re in love!” she declared with finality after a few seconds of pause, clapping her hands together in her elation, and not even noticing the lack of enthusiasm from her roommates. 

The blonde had only stopped short upon seeing the dusting of a blush on Harri’s cheeks, hands resting pointedly on her hips, a brow quirking in a silent question, “Oh, honestly Harri, it’s just a little hickey. I’ve had dozens! They truly mean nothing, especially not when you have se-”

A short burst of a yell, a plea begging for her to stop, came from Harri, a futile attempt to interrupt the girl before the conversation could derail any further. Darting forward to snatch the uniform strewn haphazardly across her bed, she retreated to the safety of the bathroom with a trail of wet footprints. The redhead truly didn't even know how to explain to them that it wasn’t a hickey, that it was something far more vicious in nature--- that it had come from a monster sinking his fangs into her throat. And, quite frankly, even imagining Voldemort in that way caused her nerves to spike and stomach to flip. She couldn’t even comprehend getting physically involved with anyone, especially not after finding out that she could kill them on accident-- _especially_ not with _him_ . Yet, in the biggest possible betrayal, her mind felt it appropriate to summon forth the afterimage of one rather naked Tom Riddle crouched in the dirt. Lines of his body heaving in exertion as glowing filaments covered the expanse of his chest, elegant fingers finding purchase in the damp earth, smears of drying gore marring the alabaster smoothness of his skin. And she saw it all with startling clarity. The smooth planes of pale muscle, the hollowed divots of shapely collarbones, the broad shoulders - ‘No, no, _no_ .’ logic chanted firmly, resorting to picturing her timetable in a vain attempt to distract herself. ‘This is not happening. You are _not_ picturing Voldemort naked.’ A thin hand scrubbed over her face in exasperation, unable to believe her own audacity, and silently cursing her roommates for inciting such a thing. Floating from the bedroom were the giggles of Lavender as she proudly regaled the tales of her summer, the soft gasps of Hermione following in suit-- and, for once, she found herself not wanting to join in. 

* * *

* * *

Harri had fled the bedroom of tittering girls under the guise that she was late in meeting Dumbledore, embarrassed with how Lavender spared no detail while Hermione listened in wide-eyed fascination, blushing but eager to know more. And how badly she wanted to yell that no, it hadn’t been a hickey. That no, it hadn’t been some quick summer hookup like they were assuming it to be. In fact, that would have been preferable over a Dark Lord lapsing in his sanity and almost tearing her throat out-- at least a muggle boy wouldn’t have suddenly sprouted fangs or saw fit to poison her out of the blue. The redhead found herself ambling down to the lake, an eager bid to escape all talk of anything romantic or of Lavender’s newly-discovered, and highly questionable, talents.

“Oi, Potter.” the posh drawl sounded from over her shoulder, the sneer of her last name being purposefully dragged out. 

An unbidden groan, that tone irrefutably unmistakable. ‘Malfoy. Of bloody course.’ It would appear that Fate was keen on not letting her have a moment's peace, content on taunting her with it, holding it forever out of reach. Harri spun on the spot, eyeing him critically as he made his way down the grassy knoll in a leisurely gait. A war in her mind was forming, a swirl of justifications, of weighing the consequences as to whether or not she could hex him without getting detention. School didn’t technically start until Monday, after all, and she had made a promise to hex him the next time they met. 

The blonde pulled up short a few feet away, pale eyes regarding her just as shrewdly in return. ‘He looks like hell,’ a passing thought, the urge to incite pain quickly fading in the face of such an appraisal. Though being back at Hogwarts had agreed with him, there were still the lingering traces of insomnia, of night terrors-- and she could easily imagine as to who they featured, a sneaking suspicion that she and Draco shared the same monster, albeit for different reasons. The dark circles under his eyes had lessened slightly since the welcoming back feast, and he seemed to be regaining the sense of superiority that she had always associated him with. But the look in that silver gaze still threw her off. It was just a touch too dull, too tired, too defeated.

“Where have your followers run off to, Potter? You’d think they would be hanging onto you after last night,” he tried to summon the usual bite, the banter-- it fell flat, however. 

Draco resisted the urge to run his fingers through his hair, the gel in it suddenly feeling too stiff, too constraining. He had made a vow to apologise, to try to alleviate his sins against her, to explain that he took it all back-- all of the taunts, the jeers, the hateful comments. It all seemed so petty now in comparison, schoolyard bullying that couldn’t even hold a flame to the real threat out there. The one that was currently living in his home, the one that he had been forced to bend the knee to. And even though the Dark Lord was hundreds of miles away, he could swear he felt him there with them. The burning in a mark hidden under his sleeve, the suffocating weight on the back of his mind, the throbbing behind his eyes. 

Harri raised a brow, eyes narrowed as she tried to puzzle out as to why he was possibly here. He looked as though he was going to be ill, already waned skin draining of colour even further, a nervous air clinging to the sharp angles of his shoulders. And the twitch of his fingers, a jerky reaction that curled about his forearm before abruptly dropping away. It was then she noticed, belatedly, that the usual group of Slytherins who always crowded him were missing. 

“I needed some air,” the explanation was slow to come to her, unable to stop her attention from fixating on the bob in his throat as he swallowed, “What about you? Where are your lackeys?” 

The boy paused for a beat, a thick swallow as he tried to find the courage to say his piece. To do what he was here to do. Instead, a shaky low exhale, the sound almost a laugh but not quite, escaped him. 

“I guess we’re the same then. I needed some air too,” he tossed her a half-smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

It was hard to continue to evenly hold such green eyes, the sharpness in them exposing him, seeing right through with startling clarity. Entirely unnerving, a look that could kill. His attention drifted towards the lake, a desperate attempt to find some shelter, some reprieve from the withering stare. It was calm today, the surface a mirror that reflected the cloudy sky above. Peaceful, serene, a sorely-needed kind of tranquility. 

Draco debated in the silence that stretched between them, wondering how he could possibly say to her that he didn’t mean for any of this to happen. To phrase it without sounding like a coward, like the spineless child he was. That it wasn’t his choice, that he didn’t _want_ to tell the Dark Lord about her. That he didn’t _want_ everything to change. Yet, that’s all it was-- wishes and desires. Hollow sentiments, a resounding truth when he found himself desiring even a shred of her courage. After all, she had faced his Lord before, had defied him, had never crumbled as easily as he had-- and he hadn’t even been tortured into compliance. Compared to that, his excuses were pathetic. No, instead he had cracked under his father’s persistence, under the admonishing glares and heavy hands about his shoulders, the venomous warnings not to shame the Malfoy name. A muscle in his jaw ticked, the polluting wave of self-loathing surging through him. 

When he finally spoke, it was to find his voice quiet, timid, “For what it’s worth, Potter, I’m sorry.”

“About everything, I--,” he trailed off, unable to find the courage or words to continue.

Even now, he lacked the inner-strength, the resolution. And this is precisely why he could never be a Gryffindor-- he didn’t have the spine for it. He knew it. The hat knew it. Everyone did. He was a Slytherin through and through, always acting on self-preservation, unable not to even when his conscience, his heart, screamed otherwise. The boy settled for watching her out of his periphery, roaming over the turned profile. The heart-shaped face and pointed nose. The fanned lashes and rosebud mouth. She was staring out across the lake as well and he wondered, briefly, what was even going on in her mind. Was she scared? Terrified? Or more determined than ever to right the wrongs of the world? And it was a startling thing to realise in the moment-- Harri Potter had always been the one constant in his life, for better or for worse, always proving to be an irritatingly welcomed distraction. She helped him forget while at school-- his father, the suffocating expectations that came with holding a noble title, the monster in his home. And he couldn’t even imagine Hogwarts without her, a heavy pit in his stomach forming when he started to entertain such an idea. 

Draco roughly stuffed his hands into his school trousers, turning away before he could say anything foolish, could let all of his secrets slip. 

“I’m glad you weren’t on the train,” a soft utterance, quickened steps carrying him from the witch before she could respond.

And as he languidly trekked back up to the castle, it hit him how strongly he had meant it. How relieved he was that she was still free, that she had gotten away even if it meant hindering the man he had pledged his loyalty to. Because her continued defiance, her evasion, meant they still had a chance-- however small it may be. That there was still some hope to be found, as foolish as it was to rely on a teenage girl to be their saviour. 

The redhead stood in silence as he left, alone with her thoughts and the waves lapping against the pebbled shoreline.


	12. The Unforgivables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This chapter is a bit of a filler but it has always been one of my favourite scenes so I just had to include it. It's a bit of a mix between what happened in the movie, what happened in the books, and what I wanted to happen. Chapter 15 will be back to being more plot-driven so don't worry if you find yourself not wanting to read this chapter!
> 
> You're all amazing, thank you for still reading <3

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“Some think that we shouldn’t be teaching our students the Dark Arts,” Mad-eye began, scribbling roughly on the chalkboard, the writing only barely legible.

Behind him, the class of 6th-years sat with bated breath, their eyes full of restlessness, of unease, as they tracked scarred fingers setting down the chalk with a decisive click. The syllabus had been abruptly changed that morning, ‘Defence Against the Dark Arts’ now rebranded as simply ‘Dark Arts’. The cause for such was in response to a Ministry mandate to begin to normalize the branch to young people, to cease the potential discrimination against its users-- a way to gain a sort of 'equality' in their society. Unfortunately, Hogwarts had conceded with the condition that only upper-year students would be required to take it. 

“Some like to think that it has no place in the classroom,” he whirled on the stunted leg, magic eye whizzing about around the dim room until it landed on the rigid form of Harri Potter.

She was positioned in the front row with an embittered look on her face, shoulders drawn up in tension, and jaw tightly clenched. It was obvious, from the stormy expression that she was sporting, what she thought of the new curriculum. And he supposed the reaction was reasonable enough-- after all, the girl had been on the receiving end of a few rather nasty spells in the past. Yet, there was something oddly peculiar about her magic that he couldn't quite seem to place. A nagging feeling, a sensation that churned in the back of his mind, a vague sort of familiarity that was always fleeting. One minute it would be there, a spark that incited goosebumps in its wake-- and then the next it was gone, as though it was a figment of his imagination. 

“Cowards, the lot of them. I say it’s best to know what you’re up against. To gain power over fear,” he roughly cleared his throat at the lengthening silence, the dusty words magically scrawling out _“The Unforgivables” _at the top, “We’ll start off with an area that we are all familiar with-- the Unforgivables. There are precisely 3 that, in the past, would have earned you a one-way ticket to Azkaban. What are they?”

A smattering of students had puzzled out in hesitant voices the 'cruciatus curse', a wild smile pulling on the split lip, the magic eye rolled into the back of his head. Out of the trio, he supposed that it could be said the torture curse was the least offensive, the weight of it not as damning. But it was also the trickiest to cast, its power drawing from the intensity of the caster's emotions, their will to _hurt_. 

“Ah good, very good,” he mumbled, tongue darting to the corners of his mouth as he regarded the line of consternation appearing between Potter's brows. 

He almost debated about having a student volunteer so they could experience what it felt like firsthand, for the others to see what magic was truly capable of. But the thought of Dumbledore’s impending dismissal, at failing the mission, and having to return to his Lord a failure caused him to eagerly cross off the idea. Instead, a grisly misshapen hand reached into the cloche housing a rather large spider, the one good eye glinting in a perverted glee. Though there were some outlined protocols to follow for the course, naturally for the safety of all involved, there hadn't been one that explicitly prohibited the usage of demonstrations on any non-human bodies.

He placed the creature gently, almost tenderly, lovingly, on the table at the front of the room, voice solemn, “Many witches and wizards have fallen under the cruciatus, tortured for information until their minds shattered. It was one of the preferred extraction methods of the Dark Lord during his reign." 

Mad-eye brandished the gnarled wand, pointing the tip at the spider who was trying to vainly scrabble off the desk.

“Crucio,” came the soft intonation, a perverse satisfaction surging in him as the magic, dark and heady, hummed in his veins, the creature curling in on itself in pain. 

Unable to help her nose from wrinkling in disgust, Harri tore her attention from the scene to roam over the horrified expressions of her classmates. For the most part, they were rapturously watching the demonstration, some a touch greener in the face than the others. And then she spied Neville a row over, a visible trembling to the outline of his shoulders. She leaned forward on her elbows, craning her neck to get a better look at him, frowning at the sight that greeted her. The boy looked on the verge of tears, lower lip quivering at the way the spider was stumbling over itself, legs curling and uncurling. Fair enough as it wasn't exactly the most pleasant sight to behold. And the girl did feel a passing sort of sympathy for her fellow Gryffindor, for the spider even-- after all, not everyone had the experiences she did, beheld the same monster, or constantly had to face magic blacker than sin. Passive emerald eyes retrained themselves on the ongoing display, thoughts becoming occupied with puzzling out how it must feel. Was it similar to when Voldemort had first touched her in the graveyard? The white-hot, all-encompassing pain, the sort that made it feel as though your head was going to split open, your bones to snap? ‘It certainly looks like it,’ she noted bitterly, propping her chin up with a tightly balled fist. It did appear that the spider was in a comparable agony, its body pressed flat against the glass table in an eager bid to find some relief-- there was none, of course. If it was smart, it would know that. An image of herself, tied to the statue and pressing into it, frenzied attempts to escape the pain in her scar, the scraping of the stone against her skin far preferable to the monster before her.

“Stop! Just stop it!” a tearful cry broke the room’s weighted silence, devastated outrage colouring the voice.

Harri slid a surprised gaze over to Hermione at her side, those caramel brown eyes now shining wetly. Her friend's hands, she noted, were shaking under the table, an air of discomposure to the normally collected girl. The desperate cry seemed to break their professor out of his reverie, dropping the wand to end the spell, and blinking in a daze as though he couldn’t quite remember where he was. It took a second for him to recover, to hastily shake his head as though to drive away the cobwebs, the haze. A cough, almost embarrassed, followed the half-step away from the now still spider.

“The others,” he bit out quickly, a frown pulling at on the scarred face as he tried to recover his composure, “Someone, give me another.”

And much to his surprise, a pasty ginger boy had raised his hand in hesitation. ‘Weasley,’ his mind supplied as the boy slowly, timidly, explained that his dad had told him about the Imperius debacle a few years ago at the ministry. 

“Yes, yes, the imperius curse. Nasty business. It removes all will from the person it’s casted on, forcing them to obey every command. After the Dark Lord’s fall, scores of witches of wizards had claimed to only do his bidding while under the influence," an unbidden darkness unfurled in him as he thought back to the traitors, those who so readily defected the first chance they had, begging for asylum and a lesser punishment.

His gaze drifted to the half-dead spider, voice low in contemplation as he prodded it with the wand, “Ah but, the imperius looks quite...different on a human than it would on an animal.”

Mad-eye retrained his keen stare to the petrified class before him, expectation bright in electric blue eye, “Any takers? I promise, it doesn’t hurt.”

No one even dared to breathe as they digested the fact that their professor wanted to curse one of his students, to perform an Unforgivable on them all in the name of education.

Harri waited in the silence, heart squeezing dully in her chest. A part of her, the brave and rash Gryffindor, urged herself to selflessly volunteer, to be the one to step forward. After all, she had the most experience with curses. When compared to her classmates, most of whom were still innocent from finding themselves on the other end of a wand, who hadn’t known the corrupting feeling of dark magic settling over their skin, she was the least under-prepared. But then a cynical side, one full of vitriol, tried to justify that she shouldn’t always have to be the one to sacrifice herself. To give herself up for the safety and comfort of others, people that she barely even knew. Unfortunately, it was a little well-known fact that Harri Potter suffered from a rather outrageous saviour complex-- her most fatal flaw and endearing virtue. Hell, she had even jumped back into the Black Lake during the tournament to complete another competitor's task, an older sister unable to rescue her younger one. And so an annoyed hand was raised high into the air, the collective sigh of relief her only thanks as long legs swung out from the bench in bitter resignation. 

Moody watched in a form of hesitation as she stepped forward, could hardly believe that the girl responsible for the downfall of his Lord had offered herself up on a practically silver platter. And while he could admit to holding a form of fondness towards her, sometimes even wishing that his comrades held an ounce of her brashness, of her spirit, it didn't change the fact that they were in opposite camps. As such, he ensured that he never got _too_ attached, the Dark Lord’s plans involving her murky at best. An open palm waved her over to the front of the room, perhaps a tad too eager to get into her mind, to see how strong her will actually was.

“Don’t worry, Potter,” he pointed his wand, smiling cheerfully at the way she hadn't even flinched, “I promise I won’t make you do anything too embarrassing. Imperio.”

A yellow light had shot forth, settling over her clothes, her skin as though she had been dusted in pollen before fading away. A beat passed and Harri wondered if it had actually worked, if he had casted it correctly. And then she suddenly felt it, the force slamming into her unexpectedly. The cloying sensation in the back of her mind, the warm glow flickering behind her lids. The way her thoughts had begun to fog over, the insistent pull of a sweet voice cajoling her. _‘_ _Dance’_ , it whispered, the tone pure honey. An inviting sort of warmth, of cosiness, a friendly sort that echoed the sensation of an embrace. Her body felt like it was floating, a queer sensation of weightlessness resting over her limbs, spreading over the dips and crevices of her fingers, her toes. And despite being faintly aware that she was still standing in the classroom, bathed in the watery light from the tall windows and the musty smell of old books, the buoyancy in her mind insisted otherwise.

She was about to give in to the sweet siren’s song when something rather peculiar had occurred. A shadow had begun to creep in, chasing and twisting violently around the warm glow in a wrestle for dominance. It was vicious, teeth gnashing, a gaping maw as it tried to swallow the remanents of light. _‘No_.’ Another voice had emerged from the chaos, a baritone that made her think of velvet against bare skin. Of stormy summer nights, of sweet smoke curling from a blazing fire.

 _‘Dance!_ ’ the saccharine tone rose in volume, sharp and unrelenting in its insistence. A strobing light show was happening in her mindscape, dizzying flashes of light versus dark. A war of intangible entities that she had no control over, one that she could only sit back to observe as the blurs encouraged nausea to rise. The warm glow had attempted to part the blackness curling around the peripheries of her consciousness, the rendered effect being bright pockets amongst a night sky. Stars set against the void, the abyss, threatened to be swallowed in the end. ‘ _No, I don’t think she will.’_ While the deeper voice had remained at a level tone, there was a cutting edge to it, a casual bluntness that left little room for negotiation.

The shadows abruptly began to gather, rapidly mounting into an encompassing wave. It swelled, higher, higher, higher, until-- the floating sensation was replaced with something glacial, frigid, inhospitable. A ghost of a shiver coursing through her, the temperature dropping, her skin turning numb at the sting. It was at this point that Harri had become dimly aware of the eyes fixated her, of how they were all waiting for her to do anything. To perhaps dance like she had been instructed to, to make a fool of herself, to prove the effects of the Unforgiveable. But, as the fog was dispelled, she remained rooted in place, peering in owlish bewilderment at a rather perplexed Mad-eye.

He dismissed her when it was more than apparent that the curse was going to be ineffective, trudging back to her spot on unsteady legs and shakily slipping into the bench. She might as well had been molded from jello, knees laxed, fingers without strength, an off-balancing sense of weariness. Hands clenched experimentally to test their mobility, barely registering the hushed whispers around her, the awed expressions. ‘Why,’ feeling oddly off-kilter, unnerved ‘did I hear his voice?’ And it was unmistakably his, there was no denying it-- yet it wasn't the skeletal monster's, the one that had been too reedy and always bordering on a hiss. But _his_. Tom Riddle's. A sort of tone that could disarm just about anyone, charm, and make you believe as though you were the only thing that truly mattered to him. 

Harri tried to vainly puzzle out what it had meant, trying to understand the fact that she had so clearly heard Voldemort’s voice in her head fighting off the curse’s hold. Had he somehow actually been there? They did share dreams after all-- maybe their peculiar connection was finally bleeding over into waking reality? The girl felt as though she were drifting away, untethered, absent from Hogwarts as the words of her professor became unintelligible. Murky, diluted, as though she were sinking further and further under the water, eardrums flooding. And it wasn’t until Moody had wandered over to her table, halted in his pacing about the room, that she blinked dazedly up at him. He evenly met her gaze in apprehension, his own narrowing with a newly assessing light. 

“As Miss Potter just proved, it _is_ possible to break the imperius. Some wizards and witches are able to through sheer will alone, a remarkable feat that isn't exactly unheard of. Yet, only one person has ever been known to survive the Killing Curse,” he mumbled, attention flitting across the redhead before him.

She fixed him in open confusion, brain still hazy as she tried to process what he was implying. But she received an answer through the unanticipated burst of green light, the exact same shade as her eyes. It filled the borders of her vision, a momentary blinding. Every corner of the room was filled with the sickening hue, dancing across the worn stone walls, casting verdant-tinged shadows upon young faces before dying down. As her sight cleared, Harri numbly took in the prone form of the spider a few tables away, its life robbed by a flash. And she knew she should have felt something, having witnessed the curse that struck her parents down, at how quick it had all been-- that she should be unsettled, disturbed. Yet, instead, the girl found herself being drawn back to the voice she had heard in her mind, unable to move past it.


	13. A Party Is A Marvelous Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the comments on the last chapter--- I really hadn't expected that! You guys are seriously so amazing and I can't even thank you enough for reading my work <3 
> 
> Enjoy!!

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Harri’s sixth year was passing by at an alarming rate and, while she wouldn’t exactly say she loved the endless essays or mountains of homework, she also didn’t want it to end anytime soon. Finally being back in the castle and using magic once again, albeit with a wand that seemed to hate her half of the time, was almost enough to make her forget how oddly the year was progressing. 

Snape had been barely looking at her during potions, his old habit of sneering and insulting subsiding into one consisting of a frown and an unreadable look. Mad-eye had taken to watching her with a guarded expression, as if unsure of her ever since she had fended off his imperius curse. And Dumbledore was….distant, to say the least. Whenever she caught his attention during dinners in the Great Hall, he seemed resolute to ignore her. But it was during the times when he hadn’t met her eye, the times that she had snuck secret sidelong glances, that she noticed minute changes occurring in the headmaster. He was, indeed, growing gaunter as the term progressed, his expression constantly pinched with worry, shoulders slumped with an invisible weight she didn’t quite know. In the past, he would have invited her up to his office a dozen of times already, questioning her about her health, her grades, and her relationships. But those visits had yet to take place this year and Harri couldn’t help but wonder if she had done something to offend him, to earn his irritation, the cold affront.

And then there was the matter of Draco. Harri shuffled the peas around on her plate, grimacing at the offending vegetable, as she pondered over the Slytherin boy. Ever since their talk by the lake, one in which he admitted that he was glad she was safe, he had been weirdly subdued around her. They no longer bickered with one another, no longer insistently pushing buttons and stepping on toes. Instead, he had taken to sending her small half-smiles whenever he passed her in the halls, sometimes even helping her in potions when she couldn’t chop up her beetles finely enough or crush the seed pods. But, apart from those small, silent interactions, he mostly kept his distance. It was disconcerting, to say the least, that he had changed so quickly, had done a full 180 personality switch. One might even say that he had matured, if they felt so inclined to do so. 

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“I can’t believe Dumbledore is fine with this!” Hermione seethed as she slid into her usual spot next to the auburn-haired girl, a whirlwind of frenzied disquiet.

Harri noticed her fingers were darkly stained with ink, finding purchase under cleanly trimmed nails, and that she had a frayed quill tucked haphazardly behind one ear. The girl seemed frazzled, the fevered look in those caramel eyes betraying the speeds at which her thoughts were cycling through. And there was only one thing in this world that could reduce the witch to such a state-- schoolwork. Hermione reached for the roasted carrots, piling them onto her plate with far more force than necessary, Ron turning to spare a nervous look in Harri's direction.

“Making us write an essay on the physical benefits associated with Dark Arts casting. I swear! It’s like he’s all but advocating for us to turn dark,” at this, she shot a mutinous glare towards the professor in question--who was, currently, nipping at his flask at the head table. 

While Harri couldn’t disagree that the paper's topic was an odd choice, she also believed that Dumbledore wasn’t exactly too thrilled with the class's curriculum either. And neither was she-- for entirely different reasons, of course. Much to her barely-concealed horror, she was doing alarmingly well in Mad-eye’s class, her highest grade at the moment in fact, and it had quickly become yet another thing she lay awake at night mulling over. The spells he was teaching them came so easily, so naturally to her that it was distressing to consider-- and she knew that, if she had her original wand, she might have excelled even further. Harri bitterly tore the dinner roll into smaller chunks, unsure of what to say, and choosing to hum softly in response. Thankfully, Ron had piqued up at the lull in the conversation.

“Mum got a letter from Percy today,” he said, resentment souring his voice-- the older Weasely brother had been a sore topic of subject ever since the ministry’s new regime began, apparently having flourished under strict protocols. 

The ginger boy had leaned forward, elbows crossing on the table, blue eyes grim, “He told her to check the papers first thing tomorrow morning.”

There was a switch that had gone off in Hermione, the earlier discontent forgotten in the wake of something far more enticing. Reaching up to remove the plume from the mass of wild curls, she considered the information. Percy had followed in his father’s footsteps after Hogwarts to join the Ministry, finding his niche in bureaucracy and order. But, unlike his father, he held an ambitious streak for a higher position, eventually becoming the personal scribe to the Minister’s Undersecretary himself.

“Really?" she breathed out, fingers drumming against the worn wood table, "Did he say whatever for?” 

Harri listened with half an ear. Instead, she had taken to watching the portrayal of an autumn sky on the Great Hall’s ceiling, the streaks of orange and yellow washing over everything in a warm glow. Leaves had been scattered on the stone flooring in a thick carpet to mimic the outside, the soft crunch of them underfoot a comforting sort of sound as students came and went from the dining room. It was already the end of October, the day before Halloween to be precise, and, quite normal for this time of year, she was more sullen than usual. October 31st marked a day of peculiarity in Harri Potter’s life for the mere fact that it was a day of longing, of yearning for something she had never known. While others celebrated the night away in merriment, in drinking and feasting, memorializing the day the Dark Lord had been defeated, she usually spent it sober and locked in her room. The masses may remember it as a great triumph but, to her, it was a sobering day of loss. Yes, he had been killed but at what price? ‘And would you look at us now,’ she shoved the lukewarm cup of tea she had been nursing to the side, ‘He’s back and my parents are still dead.’

Ron shrugged and reached for a red currant scone, “No, he refused to say why. Just that it’s important.”

He chewed thoughtfully, eyes flitting to the somber face of Harri, before taking a deep swig from the goblet filled with pumpkin juice, “So, are we going to the ‘Puff’s party tonight?” 

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A party sounded like the complete opposite of what she needed at the moment-- which was precisely why she decided she had to go. It was far past dinner time and, the second the food was swept magically away from the tables, her arms had been linked by her two rather insistent roommates. And that’s how Harri had found herself, almost an hour later, staring into the mirror and looking not quite like her usual self. Lavender had insisted a makeover was in order before they went anywhere, much to her dismay-- but she had to give credit to the blonde when credit was due. The waist-length auburn hair had been piled in a messy bun atop her head, strands and wisps of baby hairs artfully left loose to frame a heart-shaped face, while the kohl liner decorating her eyes made their usual vivid green somehow even brighter.

“Merlin, Lav,” she muttered in wonder, turning casually in the mirror. 

“I know, I know. I’m a genius,” Lavender crooned, appearing at her side as she twisted her curls up with a pale pink ribbon-- a more muted shade of the colour painted on her lips.

Fingers plucked idly at the straps of the black silk camisole her friend was wearing, full mouth jutting out in a pout, “Merlin, I wish I had your body Harri. I just look at food and I gain 10 pounds.”

With an exasperated sigh, the witch floated away from their reflections to shuffle through a jewelry box, muttering ceaselessly about a bracelet she couldn't find. 

Harri opened her mouth to say something, closing it with a click when she realised that she truly had no idea as to how to respond. Girl talk had never been her strong suit and it always threw her for a loop whenever Lavender bemoaned her body. The redhead eyed her own image critically, frowning at the fact that the blonde had mentioned she wished to have her body instead. It was unfathomable, incomprehensible. Quite frankly, Harri had always considered that she was just a touch too short, frame too skinny, collarbones too sharp-- she lacked the full chest and rounded hips that girls her age were supposed to have, left in the awkward stages of puberty while everyone else got to move on. A quick half-step away from the mirror, teeth worrying her lower lip in an attempt to not convince herself to change, to reach for an oversized jumper.

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As it turns out, going to a party was a stupid, idiotic, wonderful idea. The Hufflepuff common room was packed with teenagers, all swaying and jumping around restlessly to the heavy bass of the music blaring from suspended speakers. The lights had been dimmed and were currently strobing in different colours, a dizzying kaleidoscope that cast the faces around her in technicolour tones. Truly, Harri had no clue as to where her friends had wandered off, zero idea what kind of music was even playing at this point, no concept of what time it was--yet she could care less. Tipping back a half-full cup of firewhiskey laced punch, she couldn't stop the smile at the burning, at the floating numbness that spread pleasantly through her limbs. It made her lightheaded, a rush that moved her nerves sing. And very few times in her life had she ever actually gotten drunk-- but, as she giggled into the quickly emptying cup, steps unsteady, she wondered why she hadn’t done it more often.

“Oi, Potter!” a voice called out, barely heard above the droning beat and ceaseless chatter of the room.

Harri spun abruptly, stumbling as a dancing body bumped roughly into her shoulder, and knocking her off an already precarious balance. A hand shot out to her waist, stabilising her before she could fall into the swaying pit of the crowd. Green eyes drifted upwards to take in the flushed face of Draco, the betraying evidence colouring his normally pale skin-- he was guilty as much as she for drinking tonight it would seem. Yet, somehow, the alcohol had made his crystalline eyes almost shine, the striped tie undone and hanging carefree around his neck. It was an odd sight to behold, the normally primly put together Slytherin looking a touch too debauched, too relaxed-- a passing thought that she liked him like this. That it wholly suited him, made him look more boyish, and his age for once. A wide grin, beaming and brilliant, was tossed towards him, the earlier feelings of apprehension, of sullenness, magically vanishing under the gentle guidance of the whiskey’s spell. Spread fingers about her waist flexed slightly, a distracting sort of warmth that should have, by all accounts, been gone by now-- yet it lingered, bordering on almost the inappropriate. Her attention flitted across the refined features, at the way he had glanced down to the low cut of her top, lips slightly parted and swept-back hair in disarray. For a brief moment, he reminded her of a certain dark-haired egomaniac that frequented her dreams and she grinned humorously at the thought. 

“Malfoy!” she drawled his name out, poorly mimicking the same inflections he always used, a terrible joke that incited another surge of giggles from her.

And as he returned the laugh, a youthful, good-natured sound, mumbling something about how terrible she was with accents, there was the strangest urge to kiss him. The alcohol buzzing pleasantly in her system freed her of reservations, of hesitations, and she wondered, distantly, if she could always feel like this. What could she possibly do to never let it end? To keep it going? Her heartbeat was chaotic, hammering wildly in the cavity of her chest, seemingly unable to tear her eyes away from the smirk on that full mouth of his. ‘Screw it,’ a reckless thought, one made in abandon. Following through on the persistent instinct, the one that whispered for her to seize the moment, small hands darted out to fist the front of his collared shirt. Unrelentingly, she pulled his mouth down to hers. 

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* * *

The Dark Lord had retreated to his study, seated in front of the white marble fireplace, and idly twisting the Gaunt ring around his finger. The plans for tomorrow were turning over in his mind, a mental checklist of what all still needed to be done. It had been an extraordinary feat, one that required months of preparations, but he had finally achieved the end goal-- had accomplished something that was considered to be impossible. A cutting smile pulled on the corners of his mouth, thoughts turning to, as usual, his horcrux. What would be the girl’s expression when she saw the papers in the morning? 'Will she be horrified?' he wondered, 'Or perhaps furious?' Will her fists shake in anger, brows drawn together in frustration when she realised just how many steps ahead, exactly, he was of her? Part of him unashamedly almost wished he could be there to see it, to witness firsthand how many emotions those charming eyes of hers could portray at once. 

For the past few days, he had resolutely kept the bond between them closed, those unrestrained emotions of hers proving to be a hindrance more often than not. Especially since he needed to keep a level head, to beguile and seduce without being influenced by her temper. And just when he thought he had gotten to know her patterns, all of her little tells, her tricks, she would catch him off guard with new ones. Admittedly, it was becoming a hobby these days to try to name all of the things she felt, to find new words to label emotions he hadn't known to exist. ‘She’s full of surprises, my little horcrux,’ Voldemort mused with a certain fondness, recalling the way Barty had, rather shakenly, reported that she resisted his imperius. That had elicited a chuckle from him, still vividly recalling himself as a teenager, shortly after learning about the curse himself, resolutely practicing occlumency long into the night in determination to never succumb. Perhaps she possessed an innate disposition to the arts of the mind that she wasn’t fully aware of yet-- it certainly was worth looking into.

And on a mere whim, the Dark Lord decided to peak their bond, to see what she was possibly up to. It had been dreadfully quiet in his mind and, though he would never freely admit it aloud, there was an itch, a longing, to feel her again. What greeted him, however, was not what he had been expecting. Crimson eyes widened in mild surprise as an onslaught of intense giddiness, a lack of inhibition overcame him-- the way she felt so unrestrained, even wilder than usual. Deft fingers stilled on the ring, leaning back thoughtfully into the armchair as he tried to place it the sensations. ‘So, she’s intoxicated,’ a dark thought, a scowl crossing his face.

The idea to summon Severus to him, to reprimand him for letting this happen, to order him to immediately find her, was tempting enough to say the least-- after all, who knew what kind of life-threatening idiocy she would find herself in. It had been easy enough for her to land in unfortunate situations when sober, never mind under the influence that rendered even quick-witted minds to a dulled state. In fact, he’s not entirely sure that he wouldn’t have done so if not for another curious, rather _peculiar_ , emotion bursting brightly in the link. And he most definitely recognised this one -- had seen it in her eyes when his tongue had laved over the freshly inflicted bite mark, had learned to discern it in the erratic tempo of her heart whenever he crowded her space. 

‘The little minx,’ his thoughts were venomous, quickly identifying the emotion to be a vague form of arousal. That, even with the distance between them, the sound of her pulse still drummed in his ears, pervaded his senses. The question remained, however, as to _who_ she was currently with. Who had the gall, the audacity, to lay claim to something that wasn’t even theirs-- to experience something he had yet to do himself. The smile slid from his face, the weight of a possessive rage, a vile monster rearing its ugly head, settling in his chest. And oh, how he would very much like to meet whoever it was, to see what kind of person was so foolishly brave that they toyed with death.

The marble mantle cracked cleanly in two. 


	14. Sweet as Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading along and for the attention you've all given this fic! I hope everyone has a wonderful 4th of July (if it's a holiday for you today)!
> 
> Enjoy <3

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* * *

_‘Wake up, Harri.’_

A sharp spike of irritation, followed by a surge of displeasure. The feelings, she realised belatedly, gasping herself awake and staring wildly about the dim bedroom, weren’t her own. There was an unbidden groan as pinpoints, bright flares of pain, stabbed at her consciousness, thin hands scrubbing over her face in an attempt to chase it off. ‘Oh bloody hell, I feel like shit.' No small part of her was already bemoaning the fact that she, undoubtedly, had a biting hangover-- and that it was only going to worsen throughout the day. Hauling her aching body to a half-sitting position, legs tangled in the mess of linen sheets, green eyes peered into the darkness. A few feet away, she could make out in the shadows the softly rising forms of Hermione and Lavender, soft snores the indication that both were still blissfully asleep. And, at that, she frowned, knowing quite certainly that there had been a voice instructing her to wake up-- one that, apparently, didn't belong to either of her roommates. However, the more she concentrated on it, trying to puzzle it out, the worse the headache sharpened-- wearily, she flopped back down to the nest of pillows in search of momentary relief. Gingerly, fingers reached up to massage the smarting temples, a futile effort to ease away the stabbing tension. It was beginning to become painfully apparent as to why she usually refrained from drinking too much. The pleasure, the floating numbness, was great while it lasted but the tradeoff was truly horrendous, a sentence worse than death. Rolling onto her side, the girl squinted at the hazy light filtering through the room’s pulled drapes, a sleep-deadened arm fumbling blindly for the wand. 

“Tempus,” she mumbled, nearly crying out in thinly-veiled dismay.

The numbers of 6:45 am floated in front of her strained eyes in bright blue letters, nose scrunching at the offending time. She had only slept for 3 hours, the night before a foggy, distant memory. And how alarming of a realisation was it that she couldn’t really recall much of the party? While Harri could remember getting to the Hufflepuff common room, dancing with Hermione for the first half, and drinking the unholy laced punch, the rest was disturbingly absent from her memory-- a mystery, a puzzle missing its pieces, one that was to be solved at a later date. A pale arm draped over her face, determined to piece back together the scattered remnants of sleep when she heard it again.

_‘_ _Wake. Up.’_

This time, aggravation entirely of her own making flooded her as she threw the arm back down against the pillows in a huff, resentment a bitterness on her tongue. Not entirely too pleased at being told what to do, long legs swung over the mattress's edge with a grimace. Belatedly, Harri realised that her pants were missing, scanning the room for the pair in a daze. And--ah, there they were. Piled in front of the door, crumpled in a heap. Groaning in exasperation, she made her way to the bathroom, feet feeling as though they were made out of lead-- sluggish and disinclined to move. ‘Oh hell,’ the reflection in the mirror was mayhem. The once carefully applied eyeliner was now smudged down her face in inky tracks, artfully styled hair a tangled mess atop her head-- wild and frayed. The shower sprung to life in the background, warming its spray as the girl flinched, failing to sort out the bird's nest, the tugging not helping her headache in the slightest. There was no shame to be found in admitting that she had taken a longer shower than probably necessary. Considering it felt as though Knight Bus had just flattened her against the pavement, she justified it was beyond well-deserved.

“Accio Pepper-up,” she intoned listlessly, head thrown back in a silent scream when nothing came flying from her trunk.

Harri marched over in her towel, dripping puddles across the floor and shivering against the cold air of the room. Sinking to her knees, she aggressively began to dig through the trunk's contents, mumbling vehemently about how the _second_ she found her original wand, this one was destined for the bin. 

* * *

* * *

It was nearly 8 am by the time Hermione and Ron had wandered down to the Great Hall, the remaining piece to their trio already sitting in their usual place. An auburn head was resting against the wooden table’s edge, glassy eyes trained on the floor and unblinking. Not even bothering to lift her head, she merely rotated it when she heard them approach, darkening circles a testament how little she had slept. 

“Hey guys, I was wondering when you’d show up,” a yawn she couldn't quite stifle, words slurring together.

Her head was pounding and the girl took a vindictive comfort in the fact that her friends looked just as terribly as she did. They sat in silence for a moment, Hermione taking a deeper sip from her coffee than usual, posture not as straight as usual. Ron blinked in confusion, as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was or how he got there, blindly reaching for a muffin and taking a bite.

Harri finally muttered out, words muffled by the wood-- it hurt too much to look at her friends silhouetted by the bright morning sun. “What happened last night?” 

The Great Hall was slowly starting to fill up, pockets of students drawn in by the promise of cinnamon rolls and caffeine awaiting them. Intrigued by the continuing hush, she peeked up to take in Hermione’s reluctance to remove the mug from her face, how Ron had turned almost as red as his hair.

She jerked up, mouth forming a surprised ‘oh’, a soft groan in disgust, “No, tell me you guys didn’t.”

Their continued mortified silence, however, was answer enough. It was only a matter of time, of course-- they both held mutual feelings for the other, a development that had occurred sometime in their 3rd year. And, normally, she would be rooting for them, glad that the awkward tension was done with. But it was hard to be happy when her head felt as though it was being split wide open with an ax. Staring down at the spread appearing before them, the witch found that her appetite was suddenly lost, the unwanted mental image of her friends making out in a broom closet personally seeing to it.

* * *

* * *

It was precisely at 8:30 am, not a moment before and not a moment after, that the owls had started to swoop in from the slanted windows at the very top of the Hall. Harri glanced up in wonder, in wide-eyed amazement, as hundreds of newspapers began to rain down upon them. It vaguely reminded her of the whirlwind of Hogwarts letters spewing from the Dursely’s fireplace when she was 11, how the letters seemed to dance in the air, multiplying over and over again until it was a solid sea of white against a pastel backdrop. Momentarily stunned, a paper landed with a heavy thud on her plate, effectively squashing the cinnamon roll beneath it. And it was as though a bucket of cold water had been tossed on her, the brisk clarity chasing away the fog of her hangover, numb fingers reaching for the paper. There, in a moving photograph, teeth flashing in a disarming smile, an air of unwavering charisma exuding from his relaxed stance, was a certain Dark Lord.

And for the millionth time since his rebirth, Harri found herself cursing him, his name, his entire existence, “Oh, bloody hell.” 

* * *

* * *

If it were possible for one’s blood to freeze over, for their heart to stop while still alive, for their soul to hover outside of their body, Harri was completely, undoubtedly, 100 percent sure that all three were happening to her in this very moment. Emerald eyes doubled, and then tripled, scanned the headline to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, that this wasn’t another twisted nightmare her mind had concocted in response to her stress: WIZENGAMOT MOVES IN NEAR UNANIMOUS VOTE TO DISBAND MINISTRY.

The redhead chanced a glimpse, hoping that she was imagining it, that it was some sick joke her mind was playing on her when she considered Hermione’s equally pale face. 'So it's not one, then.' Hands clenched tightly around the paper’s edges, wrinkling it in the process, tongue running over her canines in apprehension:

* * *

> “On the eve of Friday, October 30th, Interim Minister of Magic, Lucius Malfoy, proposed a motion to altogether dismiss the Ministry under the claim of the ineffectiveness of the governing body. In a shocking move, he bidded the Wizengamot Council to vote on the implementation of a new structure, urging them to look to the future and to progression. In an exclusive interview, he explained his reasoning for such, stating that he felt the previous adminstration of the Ministry was too dated to achieve its intended purpose.
> 
> “ _It has been proven countless times that the Ministry, as well as the Wizengamot Council, have been continually lacking in their abilities to produce results,” Minister Malfoy had stated from this office, waiting for the votes to be tallied, “We need to look to the future, to a new face with fresh ideas. One who will be able to be beneficial in the progression of our world.”_
> 
> The proposed bill offered up a new government, unheard of since the Wizengamot Council was founded in 1544--- a monarchical system with a Sovereign at its head. While some had been in opposition to the motion, particularly the Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore, it was passed through by a nearly unanimous vote. Marvolo Gaunt II, a prodigy that has quickly won over both the council’s favour and the public ever since he appeared on the political scene, was named High Sovereign of Wizarding Britain at 9:38 pm on October 30th.”

* * *

Harri's attention drifted to the empty seat that the headmaster usually occupied, things suddenly clicking into place. Why he had looked so worn, so tired, over the past few months. Why his shoulders seemed to be permanently hunched and frown lines etched in the corners of his eyes, between his brows. ‘He’s been fighting against him,’ a grim thought as she turned her attention back to the article, ‘Politically trying to stop him from making a move.’

* * *

> “Appearing first on the social scene earlier this summer, Marvolo Gaunt has taken the Wizarding World by storm. A mystery seemingly to appear out of thin air, he had claimed an unforeseen number of seats on the Council, ones that had remained empty for the past several decades. Proven through blood, Mr. Gaunt declared his inheritance to the lines, once thought to be extinct, of Gaunt and Peverell, as well as a Founder’s Seat as the direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself. The Daily Prophet was able to get an exclusive with the rising star about the thought process behind the motion to do away with the Ministry system:
> 
> _“The Muggle world has been rapidly progressing over the past millennia, constantly churning out new laws and inventions that have pushed their society out from the Dark Ages and closer towards Enlightenment. Meanwhile, as they have been moving forward, our world has remained in a state of stagnant decay. Our system has already proven its inability to deal with stress and with shifts in power after the disappearance of the previous Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour. It has also proven, an innumerable amount of times, that it is unable to even pass a simple law without debating it for weeks on end. As such, the Ministry is an ineffectual system, one doomed to collapse in on itself if let to fester any longer.”_
> 
> At this point, the Prophet asked what the future may hold for our new government. Mr. Gaunt had given us an indulgent smile at the question, jokingly stating that it is not his intent on turning it into a dictatorship. Laughter filled the room for a moment and, as the amusement died down, a serious and contemplative look entered his eyes.
> 
> _“Humour aside, I do plan to take this rather seriously and have implemented measures to ensure power will still have a fair distribution. A new council will be formed in light of this to ensure all mandates can be reviewed equally before being passed formally._ ”
> 
> Having received the greenlight, the Prophet was able to get some answers as well to some of the burning questions our readers have been submitting. When asked about a potential creature inheritance to explain his unusual red eyes, Mr. Gaunt had good-naturedly laughed at some of the rumours:
> 
> _“Indeed, I have gotten some questions about them and have heard some rather interesting speculations. For example, one claimed that I was a Vampire spy. But I can assure you that they are a product of my bloodline-”_

* * *

Harri tossed the paper aside, unable to stomach the sight of his sharp smile, the confident look in his eyes. Dumbfounded, she glared at the copies littering the floor, unsure how to process what she had just read. Not even last year, he had made an outrageous claim of a new era that was going to begin, had wisely instructed that they prepare themselves for the changes about to unfold in their world. However, it hadn’t happened in the way she thought it would. In her mind, she had pictured war and death, chaos and destruction, as he took the wizarding world by force. 

However, he had chosen to smile sweetly, to play the role of a wolf in sheep’s clothing by garnering the public's favour. And for some reason, that set her even more on edge-- the fact that he could be so deceiving, that people had melted like putty in his hands. ‘The devil trying to play human,’ a spiteful passing thought, aggressively wadding the paper up into a ball and tossing it over her shoulder. Quite truthfully, she would prefer war over this. Battles, fighting, duelling-- those were things that she could figure out, could understand. But politics? Not so much. And it felt wrong that he should be able to win this easily, that he had managed to gain a _legitimate_ sense of power. Not one born from force or fear or might but one that was bestowed onto him willingly. The date suddenly flashed in her mind-- October 31st. The day that had initially marked his downfall now also symbolised his uprising, his rebirth as a sovereign, as this so-called Marvolo Gaunt. ‘The sadistic, egomaniacal bastard.’ 

She jolted from her seat, Hermione and Ron still engrossed in the news that the entire foundation of their world was crumbling, and looked, once again, to the empty high-backed chair where Dumbledore always sat. ‘Fine,’ a determined fire sparked in her chest, ‘if he won’t come to me, then I’ll come to him.’ Harri swiped an extra copy of the paper, one not covered in icing or wrinkled beyond legibility, before storming out of the Great Hall.


	15. Look At Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! A bit of an angsty chapter but important! The canon never fully explained at what point Dumbledore realises Harry is a horcrux so I wanted to play around with that a bit. The "look at me scene" from the Order of the Phoenix is actually one of my favourite scenes in the movies so I drew some inspiration from it! 
> 
> For formatting, I've decided, for clarity's sake, that the horcrux in Harri will be in italics whenever it talks to her.
> 
> As always, you are all amazing and just the best <3 Thank you!!

* * *

* * *

Harri nearly ran down the stone halls of Hogwarts, her feet carrying her as swiftly as they could to the office of the headmaster. She had already made a running list of questions in her mind, demands that he would have to answer before she would leave him alone in peace. Why, for example, didn’t he tell her about Voldemort rebranding himself as Marvolo Gaunt? About him publicly claiming seats on the council? Didn’t Dumbledore think, just for a moment, she would have some insight on how to defeat him, considering she was the one that had talked to him? Met with him face to face? 

She paused at the awaiting Gargoyle, shifting the weight from one foot to the other. A small part of her felt guilty at the thought, some endlessly loyal side to her personality justifying that she had kept Dumbledore in the dark just as much as he did to her. ‘You never told him,’ it whispered pointedly, ‘about your secret meetings with Voldemort, about the dreams. How can he trust you when you’re obviously a liar?’ The concept settled like a weight in her stomach, a souring taste in her mouth. 

She tried to banish the rationale, wishing for it not to be true, choking out uncertainly, “Lemon drop?”

The Gargoyle refused to budge for a second, as if judging her intentions, before it slowly spun away to reveal a step of stairs. Voices strained in the height of a heated argument, tense sounds that floated down from the office, and filled the echoing space of the stairwell. 

“Albus, she is not ready. She’s a mere 16-year-old girl and woefully underprepared. She can’t face him,” the sharp inflections, the stress placed on the consonant sounds.

The voice had belonged to Snape, Harri figured, as she paused on the last two steps. There was a distinct thud of hands on something solid, as if he had forcefully placed them down on a desk or chair. Her eyebrows drew together in confusion and she glanced down at the paper clutched in her hands, at Voldemort’s face frozen in a disarming smile. ‘Not ready?’ she wondered, eyes widening at the revelation. Did this mean that they had a plan in motion? An inkling of an idea of what to do next?

“Oh, Severus. I know that she is. In fact, I am painfully aware. But we had always known it would only be a matter of time before he rose up once again and she would have to face her destiny.”

Ah- that one definitely belonged to Dumbledore. Harri crept closer to the door, wanting, _needing_ to hear more. If they had a plan, she craved to know about it, to feel that she wasn’t alone in this, wasn’t drifting in some endless void of confusion. The voices went quiet, the silence stretching on for a frustratingly long time.

And then the door before her magically swung open, body going rigid as she was caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Green eyes flitted between them sheepishly, trying to fight down the humiliated blush at the thought she had been caught eavesdropping of all things. 

“Harri, my dear girl. Please, do come in,” the headmaster beckoned, voice strained and cheerful tone false to her ears.

Pale eyes were watching her in apprehension, twinkling behind his crescent moon glasses, all thoughts carefully filed away as she stumbled into the office. The door behind her had swung shut of its own accord, a resounding click that occupied the seconds where a conversation should have been. 

Severus trained his sharp gaze on her, the sneer she didn’t know she had quite missed finally back on his face, “Eavesdropping, Potter?” 

She struggled to find appropriate words, not to retort in a way that would make her seem childish, to give them any more reason to believe that she was incapable of being an adult. With an effort, the girl swallowed down the venomous words on the tip of her tongue and it took all of her willpower not to giggle at the thought that she probably could, in fact, spit actual venom if she so wished. 

Snape, as if sensing her struggle not to give in to the hilarity of a scenario she had imagined, raised a thin brow at her antics. Silence ensued, an awkward weight to its heaviness that no one seemed willing to break. 

Harri cleared her throat awkwardly, realising the newspaper was still clutched between sticky fingers and she thrust it upon Dumbledore’s desk. All eyes were drawn magnetically to it as it landed with a deafening dull thud, the ledgers underneath upset by its appearance-- it was funny how such an innocent thing could be so damning, how one little article could carry with it the finality of a death sentence.

“Professor, please tell me this is a joke. Tell me he can’t really do this,” she pleaded, the look in those dim eyes already telling her all she needed to know.

“I’m afraid, dear child, he can. Has, already in fact. Starting tomorrow morning, he will be appointed the new Sovereign of Wizarding Britain,” a grimace racked thin shoulders at the thought of what was awaiting them, the unlimited power that was now at his disposal. It was going to be even more difficult, almost near impossible, to move against him, to try to restore the tattered remnants of balance. 

“Try as I could to prevent it, he managed to do so anyway. Tom has always been quite _tenacious_ in gaining what he most covets,” Albus considered the girl standing before him, those unearthly green eyes and auburn hair. He faintly remembered Lily looking at him in a similar fashion, full of both despair and simultaneous hope-- it was as though a ghost stood before him, separated only by a walnut desk. ‘She would never forgive me.’

Harri considered him as he rose from the worn chair, a gnarled finger extended to trail down Fawkes’ feathery back and crimson plumes. She watched the motion obsessively, mild jealousy sparking to life in the cavity of her chest--the bloody bird was being shown more attention, more love, from the headmaster than she had been all year. Valiantly attempting to stamp it down, fingers curled inwards until nails bit crescent moons into the softness of their palms. 

“You have a plan though, right? You’re going to fight this, start a war against him? I want in. If so, I want to join,” she protested adamantly, a rawness in her voice that made the words falter.

_‘_ _No, you don’t,’_ whispered in the back of her mind, a traitorous murmur. And even Harri couldn’t fully pinpoint where this desperation was coming from, unable to tear her attention from the boney hand skirting across vibrant down. All she knew was that she felt it, that it was as real as the heart beating soundly in her chest-- she needed the headmaster to see her as devoted, as someone who was worth it all. There was some rational part that reprimanded herself for floundering so pitifully to gain his approval, to show him that she was committed. It was the same side that questioned why, exactly, she felt the need to do so in the first place. After all, what had he ever done to deserve such fidelity to a cause that she, truthfully, wasn’t even completely sure she wanted to die for? Snape hovered in the background, coal eyes holding an assessing glint as he watched in keen observation-- not quite saying anything but also not moving to leave.

Dumbledore studied the girl for a moment longer, grey brows raising in surprise at the sudden declaration. It was just like her, he supposed-- brave, brash, a strong sense of justice. However, as endearing as those qualities were, she was still too young to comprehend the reality of their situation, too naive to intimately understand the nuances it required to navigate. There was a dismissive forlorn shake of his head, a half-smile sent her way. 

“Oh, Harri, sweet girl-,” Albus muttered, back turning in a resolution to not say anymore. Instead, he had wandered over to a portrait, fingers interlaced behind him, spine drawn taut in a betrayal of his nerves. 

“Phineas, please summon the other professors. Let them know we have much to discuss regarding the Prophet’s announcement this morning.”

A dropping sensation, heart sinking when he had turned from her. Green eyes settled on the nape of his neck, a silent plea for him to face her, to not treat her as though she were a spectre. Unfortunately, it was starting to become a sight that she was all too familiar with-- the thin shoulders, the wiry frame always walking away rather than coming closer. Once again, Dumbledore was ignoring her, disregarding her, treating her as though she were a mere child and not the one he had specifically chosen. Keeping her at an arm's length, purposefully withholding information and only doling it out whenever he saw fit-- his way of controlling her, she was aware of it. Yet that never stopped her from always eagerly returning to the fold the second he permitted it, a hunger for something entirely intangible and never sated. But now the older wizard had done nothing short of scoffing at her show of fealty, her willingness to prove herself to him. And how it made her stomach turn to acid, rolling and lurching, a sense of restlessness bursting in between the spaces of her ribs that rendered the queerest sensation of skin being stretched too tightly. ‘He always does this,’ the thoughts had begun to descend into a manic sort, eyes obsessively tracking the headmaster's weary pacing about the room. ‘He always abandons me whenever it's most convenient for him.’

He had flitted to another portrait, tone somberly grave as he ordered it to summon those who had opposed the motion during the Wizengamot session, to relay that Albus Dumbledore still held onto a shred of hope. If he could gather support, put together a considerable enough force to resist, then perhaps Tom’s rise to power could be halted. ‘With some luck, it could buy us time until she can be ready to face him.’ Dumbledore was lost in contemplation, mind whirling in a strained frenzy to formulate some sort of plan, when he had spied the rigid form of a redhead hovering in his periphery. She was staring at him with a lostness in her gaze, as though she were adrift at sea and was expecting him to be her life vest, to save her from the gaping maw of a rising wave. What the girl wasn't privy to, however, was that he, himself, was already drowning in it-- his lungs were already overbrimming with saltwater, choking on it, unable to surface for a blessed breath. And how it filled with guilt. He had dragged her into this mess and now? Now, they were both trapped, exit strategies and potential battle plans going up in flames before his very eyes-- the war was looking to be lost before it had even begun.

“Severus, can you please escort Miss Potter back to her common room? The other professors will be arriving soon,” a wave of an open hand, no small part of him wishing she could be rid of his sight already-- the phantom of his failures.

Harri blinked once, then twice at him, trying to comprehend, to understand. She had come here willingly after being ignored for an entire summer and half a year, after being left in the dark time and time again, after being purposefully given cryptic, half-baked answers. The world around her seemed to slow down, tilting on its axis as she tried to hopelessly piece together _why_. What had she done to inspire such disdain from him? Such cruelty, such distance? He was the man who was supposed to have helped her, to have the answers she so wretchedly needed. He was _supposed_ to be the kind grandfatherly figure that she had never known-- visiting at her hospital bedside and chancing a Bertie Botts bean, sharing in a grimace as they tasted something repulsive. He was _supposed_ to invite her up to his office, ask her how she really was and to spare him the lies she kept telling everyone else, to offer her sickly sweet lemon drops and chamomile tea. He was the man she had defended countless times, denying all accusations against him because no, Dumbledore couldn’t possibly be like that. He was the man for which she willingly adopted a role she hadn’t even wanted, to become the Chosen One, the Girl Who Lived all because he needed her to be. So why was he tossing her aside? 

The image of a wizard with a too-long beard had begun to distort, tears blurring her vision. Sadness, that was an emotion she was all too familiar with, her constant companion for the past 16 years. The aching and longing kind that arose deep from within the recesses of her heart, from its chambers and ventricles when she realised that she wasn’t good enough-- would _never_ be _good enough_. When he had decided that she no longer deserved his visits or his lemon drops, his kindness or loving acceptance. But the anger that was numbing her limbs, unfurling and taking over in a parasitic hold? That was entirely unfamiliar, shocking. A new distraction she wholly welcomed. 

_‘He’s leaving you to rot,’_ the resentment in her had been given a voice, an insistent and hateful tone. _‘He’s leaving you to figure this all out on your own.’_ The light in her, the flicker that was rapidly dimming, tried to justify against the darkness, to claim that he was just as lost as she was, just as scared. A bitter chuckle was its response, a scathing sound that scraped its claws along her throat. _‘Ah, but he wasn’t the one left to suffer, was he? The one who hasn’t been fed to the wolves time and time again.’_

It had a point, a fair and objective one. After all, how many times had she been thrown under the bus because of his actions? His reluctance to step up for once? Fists began to tremble at her sides and she stubbornly shrugged off Snape’s assertive pull on her thin shoulder. All she wanted was for Dumbledore to do something, to look at her with anything other than disappointment, to not turn his back on her again as he had just done.

The overwhelming dejection had begun to bubble, giving way into fury in its stead. The adults in her life had always done this, treated her like a small child that was clueless to the evil in the world. She was _so sick_ of it. After all, she had seen things they couldn't even imagine, experienced true terror and loss. So why did they feel the need to chide her on being ignorant of it all? Distantly, Harri did wonder where this sudden burst of violence was coming from, why the voice whispering to her was the same as the one that had fended off the imperius. Why it felt as though her mind was suddenly too crowded, as though there was another presence pressing on the boundaries of her consciousness-- a monster insistent on getting in. But none of it truly mattered, at least not in the moment. She just felt so angry, so vicious, like she could finally cast a cruciatus perfectly, like she could tear into the man before her and be satisfied with his blood soaking her fingers, his gore painting her skin. ‘ _Yes,’_ it whispered encouragingly, almost gleeful in the way the flames in her chest had been stoked. She felt too much, too raw, magic crackling in the very crevices of her being with no immediate outlet to relieve the unyielding tension in her mind. ‘ _Show him. Show Dumbledore how you truly feel, let him see.’_ Her vision tinged red and then-

“Look at me!” she screamed, a hoarse outburst that shredded her vocal chords.

Snape’s hand snapped back to his side in alarm, and Dumbledore whirled on the spot at the unexpected order. He seemed so surprised that she had raised her voice, had disobeyed a direct command of his, a shocked sort of fury for his expression. But seeing that wild look in those pale eyes, the way he had finally given her his full attention, was just enough to deflate the rage that was mounting in her chest. Suddenly, the darkness seemed too distant, the voice urging her to destroy him too quiet-- her mind too empty, barren. 

Tears, hot and heavy, spilled forth before she could stop them, tongue fumbling, trying to express the swirl of ugly emotions that had taken hold, “Professor, please- I can’t take it anymore. His voice, his emotions, his eyes, everywhere I look he’s there. I can’t even sleep without seeing him, without-- I just feel- I feel so lost, so _angry_.” 

She scrubbed away the tears with shaking hands, trying to make a distinct image from the blurred lines of his silhouette, “Professor please, what’s happening to me?” 

The headmaster stared owlishly at her for a beat too long, the words sinking in as an unholy sort of revelation. The last piece of the puzzle materialised before him and comprehension dawned at the fact. All along, the girl truly had been the key to defeating the Dark Lord, to make the Devil mortal once more. And inwardly, Dumbledore chastised himself for not seeing it sooner, for not understanding the extent of her connection to Voldemort-- how it went beyond the bounds and limitations of normalcy, of something as simple as a curse mark. He struggled to school the planes of his expression into a sympathetic one, tried to not show how disturbed, how unnerved he was as he replayed the words over again. It took more effort than he would ever care to admit to seem calm at the present

Forcing a smile, trying to keep it as reassuring as he could, he settled for, “I see you, Harri. I finally see you.”


	16. She Never Had An Answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Since many of you were asking about Draco and worrying over him, I wanted to write a little scene to prove that he's fine for now lol. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments on the last chapter! I was worried that it had been a bit boring but you guys proved me wrong <3 You are all amazing readers and it means so much to me!

* * *

* * *

Snape had guided her down the stairs as gently as he knew how-- by pressing between her shoulder blades with an unyielding strength. While he had seen her cry in the past, it had never been that raw, that distraught. From his observations, she normally was content to bottle up her emotions, to put on a mask that told the world she was fine, wasn't phase-- in many ways, she was like himself in that regard. Onyx eyes fixated on the crown of an auburn head, mind obsessively looping over the entire interaction that had just taken place. 

Dumbledore’s complete dismissal of her, the resulting demand that had caused the usually unflappable headmaster to go into momentary shock. The intensity of anger and static in the air as her magic, uncharacteristically vile and dark for her, threatened to burst free. And Severus Snape could have sworn that those green eyes had flashed red for a split second, an eerily similar shade to a specific Dark Lord that haunted his every waking minute. He shuddered at the memory and was thankful as they had reached the bottom step, eager to be alone with his thoughts, to finally dissect everything in the quiet solitude of the dungeons.

“Go on, Potter,” he settled for a sneer, the tone lacking any true menace.

He watched as her form retreated down the hall and, for the millionth time since he had first met her, a too-skinny 11-year-old with knobby knees and a smattering of bruises, he pondered about the mystery that surrounded Harri Potter’s existence.

* * *

* * *

She didn’t feel like going back to the common room, not to the confusion and the alarm, not to her friends’ questioning glances and expectant hopes. Harri couldn’t bring herself to do it, especially not when she didn’t even have the slightest shred of an answer for them. Wiping her eyes on the back of her blouse’s sleeve, grimacing at how they stung in turn, a shaky low exhale rose from her chest. The surprising burst of anger and aching sadness had been replaced by lingering embarrassment and she was, truthfully, quite upset with herself. Why did she have to cry, of all things, in front of the headmaster? After all, she had been trying to prove that she was an adult, ready to sit at their table and partake in their discussion of war plans. 

‘Instead,’ a bitter thought, toeing her mary janes against the flagstone and coming to a pause in the outside corridor, ‘I only convinced them further that I’m still a kid.’ Her attention drifted in the direction of the courtyard-- the trees that were beginning to lose their autumn leaves while the cobblestone pathways were thickly carpeted in red and orange hues. Fall was coming to a close sooner than she would have liked, another year's end steadily approaching. 

A shiver ghosted through her in the wake of the wind's chill, arms wrapping about her torso in a bid for reprieve as she reflected upon Dumbledore’s promise. He vowed that they would have a serious talk, that she would finally get some answers the second he had some for himself. He claimed that he needed time to think, to process before he could be of any use to her-- and Harri did feel a bit sour at that, the subtle way he was pushing off dealing with her yet again. But nonetheless, she had, begrudgingly, accepted his offer because at least it was _something_. 

“Oi, Potter,” a voice floated from down the hall and she glanced over her shoulder to see a breathless Draco bounding towards her.

“Weasely said you’d be here. I wanted to--,” he trailed off, noting the redness rimming her eyes, the way they had begun to already puff up.

Unbidden, a frown formed at the fact she had been crying, that something, or someone, had reduced the usually vibrant girl to tears. For the strangest of reasons, it made him feel uncomfortable, uneasy, tense. It didn't suit her-- sadness wasn't something she should ever be privy to. Not the rash girl who performed death-defying feats during their quidditch matches or whose confidence was unmatched during their duels. Not the girl who was was _made_ for happiness, who wore it so well in the form of a smile that was entirely too bewitching and disarming. 

Shoving his hands into his trouser's pockets, he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to another before jerking his head towards the courtyard, “I know a place, if you want.” 

An eyebrow was raised at his obvious discomfort, finding it somehow in herself to scoff a bit, tone just a touch peevish, “Do I really look that bad?”

Draco paused at that, mind trying to play catch up to figure out if it was a trap, a trick question or not. He was worried to offend her and, briefly, he questioned why exactly that was. After all, in the past, he would have never been hesitant to insult her, to jeer at her, to prod her. Had done just that on countless occasions, never caring if he pushed her too far or stepped on her toes in the process. But now, as he considered the light so subdued in emerald eyes, he was almost afraid to do so-- she looked ready to break, suddenly far too fragile, delicate. 

“Well, you don’t exactly look amazing, Potter. In fact, you look like you need some quiet.” 

* * *

* * *

They found themselves sitting on the rocky banks of the Black Lake, an inlet surrounded by trees and quiet trills of birdsong. As Draco explained, he had found this place in his second year and it occupied a special spot in his heart-- a place of escape when the world was too heavy about his shoulders. The boy had taken to skipping rocks against the choppy surface of the water, trying his best to ignore the sniffling of a redhead settled amongst the sea of leaves-- she had buried her head between drawn knees in a bid for him not see the tears or to play witness to her breakdown. But he had of course.

“I’m good,” she called out after what felt like an immeasurable amount of time, an eon stretched in a timeless void-- in reality, it had only been mere minutes.

Harri watched as he sheepishly turned, a splayed hand running roughly through his blonde hair-- belatedly, she realised it wasn't gelled back, the usually prim and proper Slytherin having forgone it after, undoubtedly, waking up with a similar hangover. Almost hesitantly, he moved to sit down next to her, pale eyes flitting nervously to hers in search of a sign that he wasn't allowed. A soft hum, her roundabout way of approval, and he relaxed marginally. The calmness of the boy had done wonders for her turbulent emotions and the strangest thought occurred that he would make an excellent healer one day-- it would have been the perfect path for him, a profitable one even though money wasn't an object of concern for his family. The sun was slowly beginning to dip in the sky and her arms locked about her bare legs to fight off the biting sting of the autumn day. Subconsciously, she had started to lean in towards the pureblood in search of warmth, surprised when her shoulder bumped his without meaning to. He didn't move away.

The silence stretched on between the pair and Harri found herself content to just listen to the faint chirps in the background, the rhythmic lapping of the water against the rocks, the wind rustling through the brittle leaves on the trees. When she finally broke it, however, it was with a whisper, “What’s he like?”

Draco blinked down at the redheaded girl propped up against his shoulder, confusion drawing his brows together as he tried to puzzle out what she meant. “Who?”

She lifted her gaze, regarding the confusion dawning on his face from the corner of her periphery. Pointedly, her eyes shifted down to the dark mark hidden under his left sleeve, muttering out, “Voldemort.” 

The muscle in his shoulder tensed unwittingly, jaw ticking in outward reaction to the cursed name being spoken aloud. He glanced uneasily about the forest, scanning the darkening treeline in dread and fully expecting to see the Dark Lord appear out of thin air. The devil ready to wreak havoc and sow destruction upon all those who dared to utter his name, the taboo of an unspeakable power. When nothing had happened, however, he couldn't help but slump a bit in relief, gaze flitting across the face tilted up at him expectantly. ‘How the hell is she so perceptive?’

"You know?” he grimaced, suddenly finding it hard to swallow.

She huffed, a small laugh at the incredulity in his tone, at the surprise that she had been able to piece it together. Harri retrained her attention on the flat expanse of the lake, tone somber, “I had my suspicions."

"I saw him, you know,” she further explained, squinting into the horizon's distance, “Your dad, in the graveyard that night. And when he was elected Interim Minister, I figured out what he meant to Voldemort. And since you’re his son--.” 

Draco blinked once, then twice, before throwing his head back in an embittered laugh, “Merlin Potter, nothing gets past you.” 

His laughter quieted down as he joined her in staring out across the lake, voice hesitant, slow, as though scared to say the wrong thing. “He’s...frightening. I’ve never seen someone with so much power before, someone with so much control over magic. He can be cruel and it’s hard to breathe around him. You get scared you’ll do the wrong thing and disappoint him, get tortured or imperius’ed, or worse. And when he’s displeased, you feel it like hot oil burning your skin. So much so that you can’t help but wonder if you’ll die from the pain.”

Finely arched brows knitted together, a line of tension appearing between them as he struggled to find the correct words for his thoughts, to accurately portray what being in the Dark Lord’s service truly felt like, “But he’s also very tempting, very appealing. He can make it feel like you’re on top of the world, like you’re all that matters. He can be so charming, so captivating, that you can’t help but want to please him and to get his approval. To be around him. It’s terrifying.”

Harri frowned in the wake of his assessment, at the way he was trying to puzzle them out as though he had never thought of an answer before this moment. She didn’t know how to respond because she understood completely-- had felt the exact same things that he was describing. There was something so intoxicating, so alluring, about Voldemort’s presence that it made her teeth ache and her nerves to be strung wire tight. An enigma hard to place, to accurately portray.

In the end, she settled for a soft, “I see.”

In the expanse of quiet that had ensued, Draco managed to gather up the courage to ask her what he had been dying to know all morning, the question that caused sleep to evade him. He fidgeted slightly, trying to swallow down the rising embarrassment, “Why did you kiss me?”

Harri jolted away from the Slytherin, eyes widening in unfiltered surprise. They roamed over his mortified expression, carefully dissecting it, vainly hoping it was an elaborate joke he was playing on her. However, much to her dismay, there were no tells of his jest. 

“Pardon?” she choked out, faintly wondering if she had water in her ears or if her brain was perhaps just damaged at this point-- it had to be to imagine such a jarring question.

He fought the blush that he knew was colouring his ears, resolutely turning from her shocked expression to stare, focused, on an ant crawling across a leaf a few inches from his shoe. It would appear that she had forgotten about the incident entirely and he cursed himself for even bringing it up in the first place.

“At the Hufflepuff party,” he clarified, “You kissed me. Why?”

A shaky bark of disbelieving laughter, nimble fingers running through auburn strands to help ground herself to reality only to snag on a knot in the process. It suddenly made sense as to why she felt that some memories were missing, pockets of time obscured by a fog that refused to lift.

“Oh, bloody hell. Screw firewhiskey,” she muttered vehemently, cursing the drink as well whoever had the brilliant idea to spike the punch in the first place-- probably Justin, knowing the boy's reputation and fascination for turning water into rum. 

Draco rushed to explain, sensing her mood turning foul. He raised his hands defensively as she leaned away from his shoulder and, unnervingly, realised how cold he was without her pressed up next to him, “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t enjoy it or anything. I just wanted to know _why_.” 

It had occurred to him, as his pale gaze danced over her face, soaking in every emotion, every outward sign, that he was looking for a specific answer. Hope blossoming in his chest, warming him down to his fingertips, expectation a bright spot in his consciousness. ‘Maybe she felt something,’ his thoughts were optimistic, almost buoyant. ‘Maybe she had felt something as well when we kissed?’

She huffed in almost agitation, beyond irritated with herself for being such an idiot, for drinking more than she knew she could handle. And to kiss Draco Malfoy, of all people. She absentmindedly wondered why she did it, why she even felt the urge to in the first place--- it wasn’t that he was bad looking, oh no. Half of the girls, and probably some boys as well, admired his looks and more. It was just--it was _Draco_ , her past rival, the holy terror that plagued her elementary years and the reason for most of the detentions on her record. Kissing him was just another thing in her life she didn’t have an answer for it seemed-- yet another mystifying occurrence in her existence that defied all logic and reason, entirely unexplainable. And it would seem that it was becoming an unsettling motif over these past few months, the list compiling of questions by far outweighing the one with answers. 

“I don’t know, Draco,” she bit out, not exactly mad at him but more frustrated at herself for losing control, “I was drunk, shit like that happens.”

The pureblood tried to ignore the pit of heavy disappointment settling in his stomach as he regarded her, a crestfallen expression undoubtedly on his face at the harshness of her response. He tracked her movements, the way she rose from the ground and brushed the leaves clinging to her skirt-- the fabric had lifted slightly to reveal a tad more of her long legs than usual, a sight that rendered his heart to skip over an uneasy beat. The autumn scenery in the background had made her hair even more vivid, unearthly green gaze almost glowing, rosebud mouth a pleasing shade of pink, the skin a touch creamier, paler from the lack of sun. Even he could readily admit that she had transformed a long cry from the awkward 11 year old he had first met all those years ago, a gangly child that coldly rejected his outstretched hand.

‘She’s beautiful,’ the revelation was jarring as he scrambled to get off the ground, things clicking into place with an abundance of clarity. Why he cared if she was crying or not, how badly he pined to feel her lips against his once more, the reason she was always circling in his thoughts, detrimental to his sanity as of late. A hollow laugh rose to join hers in agreement, trying to play it nonchalant, collected, like her words hadn’t actually bothered him. But as the two meandered slowly back to the castle, a different scenario played in his head without being summoned-- one in which she revealed that the kiss had meant something. 


	17. To Make A Deal With The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! We are /so/ close to ending the Hogwarts arc and I just wanted to say thank to everyone who is still reading along and believing in this fic! I never thought I would get this far and you all have given me the motivation to continue to write <3 Thank you, everyone, you're all amazing and beautiful!
> 
> I hope you guys will continue to read and enjoy it! <3

* * *

* * *

As it turned out, much to her extreme surprise, Dumbledore partially kept his promise. Several days later had found Harri waking up to the unexpected appearance of a letter placed upon her worn trunk, the slanted scrawl of her name neatly printed on the plain envelope. It wasn’t even past 8 in the morning and the girl was already out of bed, greedily devouring its contents in an eager bid to see what Dumbledore had managed to divine. The uncomfortable sensation of wood biting into her knees or the morning chill of the bedroom did little to offend as she knelt on the ground, thin fingers curling about the parchment’s edges. A beat of a second passed before a swell of disappointment replaced the earlier anticipation when the letter revealed little of substance— it was merely imploring her to stay behind for the upcoming break so they could have a conversation in private. And as she crumpled the letter in one hand, tossing it over her shoulder carelessly, a frown appeared as she considered how Dumbledore had stressed several times the imperativeness in heeding his wish. Mentally filing away the instruction, the girl rose with stiff knees and a weary sigh, trudging to the bathroom while idle-mindedly thinking back to the strangeness the past week had brought. 

She had refused to watch Voldemort’s broadcasted sham of a coronation, irritated at the very idea that he felt the need to flaunt his victory so publicly, so widely. It had been bad enough to see his smug face, with that too sharp smile and false displays of humility, plastered over the papers every single morning. But now? Now, she had run into an entirely different, albeit to be expected, problem. Around the halls of Hogwarts, “Marvolo Gaunt” had become a buzzword, something everyone wanted to keenly discuss. Who, for example, was the mysterious young man now in control of their government? And, more importantly, did he have a significant other in the picture? The girls, and undoubtedly some boys as well, had taken to swooning over his looks while openly lamenting the fact that there was a distinct lack of potential suitors who looked even remotely similar at school. It had turned Harri’s peaceful routine of breakfast into one giant gossip fest as the clamouring in the hall centered around what he was wearing that day or how that photo had captivated his very essence. And how she wanted nothing more than to scream at them to just _stop talking_.

In fact, her very own roommate, one Miss Lavender Brown, had declared herself the new Sovereign’s number one supporter much to Harri’s never-ending headache. _“He’s just dreamy! Some may not like them but I think his red eyes just adds more to the mystery of him. What I’d give to touch him just once,”_ the blonde would croon nightly, eyes alight with adoration as she would busy herself in snipping his photos out of the papers. ‘It’s almost hilarious,’ Harri thought bitterly, running the soft-bristled brush through the auburn strands with an unkind strength, ‘at how quickly McLaggen was replaced.’ 

Of course, it all had disgusted her, made her feel beyond ill in seeing how the man had managed to utterly and completely win over the female population with a bat or two of his eyes. Even Hermione, level-headed, rational Hermione, had fallen prey to his good looks much to her unbridled horror.

> “You have to admit, he’s quite handsome,” she had stated nonchalantly over coffee, having just finished the article declaring the appointment of Lucius Malfoy to a seat on his council.
> 
> Harri nearly choked on her oatmeal in turn.
> 
> “He’s the _Dark Lord_ , ‘Mione,” she had hissed out in response, barely concealed dismay in her gaze while her appetite vanished into thin air.
> 
> “I know that,” the brown-haired witch defended, the tips of her ears bright red and a dazed look in those caramel eyes, “it’s just that I can see the appeal is all.”

Harri slammed the trunk’s lid closed forcefully, an exasperated groan slipping out of its own accord. The man had invaded Hogwarts in the most unexpected way possible yet everyone was too blind to see what he was actually doing— Lucifer hiding his wretched deeds behind an amiable facade and honeyed words. Like how, for example, he delegated prominent Death Eaters to the council that was meant to be the check to his power. Or how, for another, he had pardoned those from their Azkaban sentences only after he had illegally broken them out under the guise of a ‘security breach’— people that, by all accounts, most certainly deserved to rot in their cells. But no one seemed to be piecing any of this together. It was absolutely maddening. 

And she just knew that he possessed an awareness that the public was falling left and right for his saccharine charm and sultry smiles. ‘Smug bastard.’ Scowling in the mirror, the girl slipped the red and gold tie over her head, muttering incoherently as she deftly did its knot. How many times did she find herself in this past week alone wanting to stand up on a soapbox and yell to the heavens that he was the Dark Lord? To beg everyone to wake up and see him for the monster he truly was? And it had only been a measly 7 days— this was to be her indeterminable future, a foreshadowing of a lifetime spent housing truths most were ignorant of with the inability to change their minds. Though it was a shameful thing to admit to, Harri also found herself almost letting it slip that the “hickey” Lavendar had gushed on about for weeks on end had actually come from him— a graceless bid to end her roommate’s stupid ramblings about one day marrying him, to shock her into silence so the blonde couldn’t utter another damnable word about his “dreamy face”. He was everywhere she looked as of late— Merlin only knew how sick she was of it.

Then there was the matter of the concerning dreams she had been having. Thankfully, on the whole, he had been suspiciously absent in making an appearance— ‘Too occupied in flirting with the press’, a scathing assessment as pale hands aggressively shoved the tails of her starched button-up into the pleated skirt’s waistband. Yet, despite the lack of his involvement, they had become increasingly stranger, more vivid. Most of the time, they were passed through the eyes of the snake, either coiled about the legs of Voldemort’s throne or draping herself across his body. ‘Nagini,’ her mind supplied unhelpfully, rolling the black nylons up and past her calves in a precarious balancing act on one foot. And other times, she would be hunting through the dew-laden grass, forked tongue flicking outwards to taste the crisp morning air. When she would finally return to her body and rouse from sleep, it would always be with a hollow ache between her ribs, a longing for something she couldn’t quite place a name to. A few times, she had even been moved to tears— silent things escaping unbidden in the dimness behind drawn curtains. It was utterly disturbing, to the say the least. After all, there was no logical reason, no basis for such emotions, and yet they were felt so viscerally all the same. A shudder racked through her thin shoulders as she slipped stocking-covered toes into the polished loafers, Hermione already long gone to breakfast. 

* * *

* * *

Harri found Draco leaning against one of the tall stone lanterns outside of the Great Hall, the flickering flame long since cooled from the previous night. An easy smile unfurled on his face when he noticed her approaching, a good-natured thing that lent his usually prim countenance a boyish casual charm. And how she was quickly realising it suited him best, that it was an expression she was rather fond of seeing. An airy feeling overcame her at the fact he had chosen to wait— then it all slipped away, the threads of her good mood twisting, fraying, snapping. There was a smattering of giggles escaping past the cracked doors, a grating sort of noise that could only mean one thing— the morning post had arrived.

“Oh, bloody hell. Already?” she groaned, splayed fingers running through the fiery hair, barely-concealed resentment sparking emerald eyes to a poisonous green. It had been her dearest wish to at least get a few bites in peace— yet the universe was determined to not even let her have that. 

Draco was unable to help the smirk at her exasperation, a hand flying to his chest in a feigned surprise, “What, Potter? Dark Lords aren’t your type?”

There was a passing urge to sock him in the arm for the comment, her fingers tightening imperceptibility around the leather strap of her school bag. She had always been a bad liar— she knew it, her friends knew it, hell even the professors knew it. It didn’t matter whether it was a large, elaborate kind of lie or even the smallest of fibs, she struggled with them all the same. And part of her blamed the harsh authoritarian rearing methods of her uncle and the sting of his belt that persisted for days afterwards— it was hard to forget a lesson like that.

“Well, he did try to murder me as a baby,” Harri settled for a carefully worded response instead, focusing on the truth with a quirk of her brow, “And then a few times after that.”

“Draco!”

The teenagers whirled around at the unexpected hiss, the reprimanding and chiding tone that sounded from further down the hall. Both had similar reactions of tensing stances and paling faces but for entirely different reasons. Storming up the flagstone front steps was none other than Lucius Malfoy, the metal tip of his cane clicking with an obnoxious pretense against the tiles— and those pale eyes of his held nothing short of icy contempt when they landed on who his son was talking with. 

“Father,” confusion bled into the younger Malfoy’s voice as he edged away from the redhead, a doomed endeavour to put a respectable distance between themselves while clearing his throat anxiously, “W-What are you doing here?”

Lucius had given a disdainful sort of sniff, gaze slowly raking over the wisp of the girl standing by his heir. How she had possibly defeated his Lord escaped his comprehension, an impossible sort of feat when, outwardly speaking, there was nothing truly remarkable about her. In his eyes, she was too skinny, a mere slip of a child— one that he had the displeasure of underestimating in the past. After all, he still could clearly remember the little stint she had pulled, a nasty trick involving a dirty sock, a destroyed diary, and the freeing of his best house elf. The muscle in his jaw jumped, fingers curling around the handle of the cane— how he couldn’t wait until her reckoning would come.

“Our Lord has ordered me to come observe the safety of Hogwarts,” he explained offhandedly, attention fixated on the defiant expression she was so brazenly wearing, “To make sure everything is being kept in working order.”

“Your Lord, Lucius?” Harri snapped, shoulders drawing up at the way he was cooly dissecting her, teeth setting on edge, “Careful or people might get the wrong idea. After all, someone else was once your ‘Lord’ too in the past, wasn’t he?”

His nose wrinkled in disgust, in outrage at her bold and impudent insinuations— she lacked tact that most people, Dumbledore included, understood and abided by in public. A bubble of contempt rose in him, the itching need to put her in her place. Though, in the end, it wasn’t worth the risk, especially not when his Lord was fully intent on handling her himself. He settled for a tsk, a scornful click of his tongue before harshly turning on the spot. It was a non-verbal cue, an expectation for his son to follow, the irritation only rising when there were no ensuing footsteps.

“Draco!” Lucius barked out, glaring over his shoulder, “Come along.”

It hadn’t gone unnoticed the way the boy had drifted closer to her the second he had turned his back, the way they were inching together. Nor did he not see the sheepishly apologetic smile sent her way, the small saddened wave given to him in response. His hand darted out in a blur to tightly grip the back of his son’s neck, fingers digging unkindly into its softness as he steered him away to the headmaster’s office and far from the Girl Who Lived. 

* * *

* * *

It was in Darks Art class as Mad-eye was having them practice disillusionment charms on some rather questionable, and quite vile, objects, that it occurred to Harri she hadn’t told her friends of the plan to stay behind during the holiday break. A spellbook bound in skin, from who or what she didn’t know, had been placed in front of her, the purple eye embedded into its cover narrowing threateningly. With an uneasy swallow and an apprehensive glare, she decided, for her own safety, it would be wise not to turn away from it should it try something devious. Instead, she leaned hesitantly over to Hermione, a wave of sympathy surging at her friend’s own plight. The brown-haired girl was pale at the sight of her artifact— a china doll with its porcelain face cracked and painted lips mouthing a senseless whisper.

“Hey ‘Mione,” Harri muttered, jumping at the blink the grimoire had suddenly given, “I forgot to mention but I’ll be late coming to the Burrow for hols. Dumbledore asked me to stay behind for a day or two.”

Hermione was about to respond, to undoubtedly question why, when a rather undignified and ear-splitting shriek filled the room. Neville, who was unfortunately stuck with a crawling severed hand, had screamed when it launched itself off the desk— and straight onto his face. Their professor had been drifting from table to table, rather gleeful in his commentaries of “Oh yes, that one’s rather nasty. Don’t let it touch you” or “Finnigan, don’t stare at it or it’ll haunt you for a week,” when he whirled on that stunted leg of his for the source of the noise. A mad type of chuckle escaped him as he hovered over the boy sprawled on the ground, the vain attempts to pry the hand off his cheeks rather pitiful.

“Immobulus,” a white light shot out from the gnarled wand, “Longbottom, what did I just say about the hand? Don’t turn your back on it!” 

As she watched the interaction, Harri couldn’t help but wonder how the man was even allowed to become a professor in the first place. Such musings, however, were interrupted when a flash of white-blond hair appeared on her periphery, dragging her out of her mind and back into the present. Lucius Malfoy drifted by their classroom, muttering intelligibly to himself, his strides long and almost hurried in nature. Leaning back on the bench, she peered out into the corridor to observe his chaotic manner— glittering gold sparks drifted upwards from the tip of his wand, crackling in the air for a moment before fizzling out. A frown appeared at the queerness of him hastily scribbling into a notebook afterwards as though he were recording the effects to read over at a later date. ‘Is this what he meant by observing for working order?’ she wondered idly as he snapped the journal shut, marching down the corridor with unknown purpose. 

* * *

* * *

Her dreams that night had found herself in what, suspiciously, looked like the restricted section of the school’s library. The moon was already high in the sky, silver pools of light sporadically illuminating the darkened corners and lending the space an ethereal atmosphere. Admittedly, this was the one part of Hogwarts she had spent the least amount of time in, the room playing host to Hermione more often than herself. But as she sat on the edge of one of the desks, legs swinging sluggishly off the side, Harri found herself more than readily acknowledging it was quite beautiful. 

“Ah, the library. Interesting choice of location, if I must admit, Harri,” rounding the corner and materialising from the shadows was the Dark Lord.

He was wearing the same outfit from Diagon Alley all those months ago, a black half-unbuttoned linen shirt and trousers to match. It would appear that even the famed Potter luck was bound to run out at some point, her dry spell of evading him finally coming to an end. Quite truthfully, Harri was almost sure he had forgotten her, far too consumed with the power vacuum fashioned in the wake of the Ministry’s dismantlement to pay her any heed— or, at least, that’s what she desperately wished for. Though, it now appeared she was wrong on that account. Rather than speaking, green eyes eyed him critically, legs stilling when he had stepped closer and out into the moonlight. ‘He certainly looks well enough,’ a passing note, attention flickering across his towering frame, ‘considering he now has to run an entire country.’ 

Voldemort trailed a finger over a book’s spine, nonchalantly stating for the sake of conversation, tone almost wistful, “I had spent quite a bit of time here myself while at Hogwarts.”

It had been ages since he last laid eyes on her, had felt her. And how starved he was for her company— a fact unrealised until this very moment. The cutting edge of hunger was only sharpened by the fact that, this time around, it was her who summoned him. It had begun as a tug on his consciousness, a demanding pull that increased until he had finally relented to the call. Admittedly, the very idea, the notion that she was seeking him out incited pleasure to thrive, a boundless type of elation. The witch was still watching him silence, keen eyes flitting in an assessing way over his relaxed form— he busied himself in pretending to read the title of a novel, eager to continue having her attention fixated upon himself. During the past week, Voldemort had been resolute in keeping their link shut to avoid any impeding distractions that were rapidly becoming associated with her. Though, to say that was the only reason would be false— it was partially out of fear as well. The fear of letting his emotions accidentally slip through, of, perhaps, tipping her off and causing her to become suspicious. And that wouldn’t do. Not now, not when he was this close. 

The quiet stretched into an almost unbearable length, a weighty and crushing thing. She had yet to speak and, though he was loathed to admit it, such blatant disregard was driving him insane. A long finger tapped once, twice, three times on the wooden shelving before whirling around to eye, incredulously, the girl still perched on the table. 

“Do you know, Harri,” he started, tone disbelieving at her gall in ignoring him, “How rude it is to invite someone into your mind, only to stare and refuse to say anything?” 

A vindictive smile grew before she could stop it, her knuckles bleeding white from the pressure in which they gripped the table’s edges. ‘So he doesn’t like to be ignored? Good,’ a sadistic thought, tongue running over her canines in deliberation. There was an entire list of things she wanted to say to him, to yell at him for, and she figured it was safest to do so in her mindscape— here, at least, was a setting she had some semblance of control over.

Harri hopped down from the desk to stand yet refused to step any closer towards him, “You’ve made a bloody mess of everything, you know that right?” 

Scarlet eyes blinked at her from the darkness, two pinpoints of glowing fire, and just mildly offended that an accusation was the first thing she had chosen to say all night. But, then again, why was he even surprised by her antics at this point? The girl had shown time and time again that she possessed an uncanny ability to astound him with an outcome he could never foresee. A slow indulgent smile played on a shapely mouth as his arms crossed over the solid expanse of his chest, leaning casually against the shelf to observe his horcrux. 

There was a gleam of anger in her gaze that was next to impossible to resist prodding at, “Whatever do you mean, love?”

A twitch jumped in the muscle above her brow at the pet name, the mocking innocence in his eyes, at how casual and at home he looked even though it was her mindscape they were currently in. The audacity he had to appear so at ease made her want to bare her teeth in frustration, to expel and freeze him out. Curse green eyes slipped closed, a deep inhale following in pursuit as a futile attempt to ground herself. After all, she wanted answers and the logical side to her was urging not to act in a way that would push him to become volatile— this was a Dark Lord she was dealing with, a fact she had to make a conscious effort to remember. 

Fixing him in a withering stare, Harri fought to keep her tone even, “You know what I mean. Sovereign, really? Why? Was “Dark Lord” or “Supreme Ruler” just not catchy enough?”

He let out a breath of laughter, the smile almost genuine on his lips as his head shook in disbelief. This is what she wanted to question him about? Why she had summoned him here this late at night? Out of all things, the girl was rearing to discuss politics. ‘Fine then, have it your way’. Pushing himself off the shelving to take a step forward, he noted in content that she hadn’t flinched. The last time they had been this close, she slapped him in blind anger and he had threatened her in response. 

“It’s easier to move across the chessboard when I’m not reduced to hiding in the shadows. You can not tell me you disagree that the Ministry was comprised of incapable fools, Harri. It was only a matter of time before it collapsed in on itself. I just merely sped the process along,” he paused as though in contemplation before adding with a sly smirk, gloating clear as day in his gaze, “Though, it is an added bonus when everyone seems to be eating out of the palm of your hand.”

She knew she shouldn’t have been surprised, especially considering how large of an egomaniac he was, that he was so smug, so thrilled about having an entire nation adore him. But it had nonetheless. Harri could still remember when she discovered she was apparently famous in their world, that her name was a prayer on some stranger’s lips, their holy saviour— it made her skin itch. In truth, she despised the spotlight more than anything and hearing him so confidently express his love for it. Well, she just couldn’t find it in herself to relate. 

Crossing her arms defiantly to mimic his own stance, she snorted before biting out venomously, “Yeah well, you’ve ruined Hogwarts for me so congratulations. Lavender won’t stop talking about marrying you and half of the student body wants to jump you. If it isn’t bad enough for me to see your bloody face everywhere, I now get to hear about it too.”

Voldemort had given a noncommittal hum at her confession, not exactly shocked to hear teenage girls were swooning over him. It had been the same while he was a student, had been like this his entire life in fact. People tended to be quite open about their attraction towards him and he couldn’t say it was something he entirely minded when it was to his benefit. ‘Well,’ an inner voice amended the blanket statement, drinking in the form of an agitated redhead in front of him, ‘mostly everyone.’ 

A mischievous smile lit up his face as he bent down, crowding her space and watching, pleased, at the way her pupils had dilated just for a second, “And what about you, Harri? What do you think? Are you in agreement with them?” 

The way her mouth floundered in response, opening and closing repeatedly, was the pay off he had been looking for. He retreated back to the bookcase, voice sly, “If I remember correctly, you said something along the lines of how even my ‘penmanship is beautiful’? What else, I wonder, do you find beautiful about me?” 

When she was rendered mute, a chuckle filled the library, a sense of accomplishment in getting her to react so favourably. The girl’s lips were pulled into an embarrassed pout, head turned resolutely from him— yet he could see the delicate blush on her cheeks, the dusting of it on the tips of her ears. It was entirely worth it, teasing her this way, getting to witness this side to her. But he could sense their time was running out, that she was going to wake up soon and the fun would end. Attention drifting about the library, a cunning idea planted itself in his head, his mirth only growing. 

“Tell you what, Harri. Let’s make a deal,” he crooned, her name rolling off his tongue in the sweetest of ways.

He shifted closer towards her, eyes glittering with the scheme formulating in his mind, “You manage to complete this task and I will give you anything you wish for— within reason, of course. Any answer to a burning question you may have, any favour you may want. No strings attached. There’ll be no time limit, no set date, and you can feel free to summon me once you’ve accomplished it. However, fail to complete it and all I ask for is the same. A boon for a boon.”

She stared at him, gaze flitting across his face in an attempt to discover a lie, a deceitful trick. It almost sounded too good to be true, almost too easy. A voice, rational and objective, whispered not to do it— that this would be making a deal with the devil. How many fairy tales, how many fables, had started out this exact same way? And how many ended just as poorly? But the Gryffindor side to her, brash and unwavering, the side that never shied from a challenge was roaring, cheering, for her to accept. 

Harri acquiesced with a small nod, voice calm and steady, “Fine. Just tell me what to do.”

A cheshire grin spread on his face, voice low in anticipation, heady in his excitement, “Tell me what a horcrux is.”


	18. Holiday Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for the later than usual update-- I ended up coming home a tad later than expected today!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading along and for the comments <3

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* * *

Harri had, initially, accepted his conditions under the assumption that it would be easy enough to accomplish. For one, she had Hermione, a literal walking encyclopedia, at her disposal and, for another, the entire expanse of the Hogwarts library to serve as backup. ‘He’s a fool,’ had been the original thought, unable to fully believe that Voldemort made such an easy, low-stakes bet. In the end, the girl promised herself a day, maybe two tops, before she would find the answer and demand something so outrageous from him that it would engender an eternity’s worth of regret for ever daring to provoke Harri Potter. 

But now, as the start of holiday break had managed to creep up at an alarming rate, an entirely different conclusion was being entertained-- she had been tricked, duped, given the short end of the stick. When Hermione had been asked, rather nonchalantly in passing over lunch, if she ever came across the term “horcrux” in her endless readings, the answer came in the form of an owlish stare and a deep-set frown. Then when she tried to use a location spell in the library reserves, not one single book had come flying off of the shelves-- some part to her desperately hoped it was just the replacement wand acting up, spitefully ignoring its 'master' as usual, and had taken to doing the research in plain old Muggle fashion. But now she was starting to question if the word was even real or if he had made it up, a last parting gift in the form of a middle finger and an insurmountable challenge. ‘Perhaps,’ an idle thought as she thumbed through the dusty tome, eyes strained and glazing over, ‘he’s still mad at me for slapping him.’ It wouldn’t be a surprise, especially given how mercurial he was in their shared dreams.

The idea though, the very promise, of what kind of reward awaited pushed her forward with renewed energy. After all, being able to request just about _anything_ from him, from their new 'Sovereign', was entirely too tempting to pass up. ‘What to ask for, what to ask-’ her musings halted abruptly as there, masquerading as a footnote in an obscure text plucked off the shelving in a whim, was it: _'horcrux'._

Giddiness overrode the fatigue as Harri flipped to the appendix, the pad of her finger tracing excitedly across the age-worn pages and almost screaming for joy when she stumbled upon the book title it had referenced. Nearly stumbling when her leg clipped the chair, she steadied herself by gripping the table's corner with a hiss of pain, the stack of books atop it rattling precariously. Yet, as she raced along the narrow aisles, desperately counting the titles once, and then twice, that elated high was diminished by frustration-- it wasn’t even in their library. And, for the first time in her life, a serious debate was mulled over regarding the ethics of actually murdering another human being

* * *

* * *

“It doesn’t exist!” came her rant as she slid down next to Hermione in the Great Hall, exasperation lending the tone a biting edge and practically inhaling the goblet of pumpkin juice.

Hermione anxiously eyed her best friend’s agitation, the way she could practically see the fuse of her temper glowing behind those startling green eyes. An unbidden sigh, knowing full and well patience was never the girl’s strongest virtue. Instead of attempting to offer her pointers, however, knowing it would set her off even further, she reached over to pat her back gently.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she started slowly, wary to see if Harri would snap in turn, “did you try asking Professor Moody?”

The redhead's fingers drummed irritatedly against the wood grain of the table, tongue running over the roof of her mouth at the suggestion. She had debated about going to him, to see what he would know after Hermione had been at an utter loss. But as she recalled Voldemort’s cheshire grin and the brightly-lit anticipation in his unholy gaze, she had decided against it. It would be rather in character for him, the sadist he was, to have her be looking into something questionably inappropriate-- and, honestly, Harri felt like she couldn’t deal with any further embarrassment that might earn her shifty-eyed glances from the professor for the rest of the year. Instead of answering, she gave a noncommittal hum and resigned herself to tearing up the dinner roll spitefully. 

Ron shifted his gaze between the two girls, trying to understand what they were fussing about, when Hermione tossed a pointed glare his way. He coughed at the ensuing kick to his shin, choking briefly on the mashed potatoes and reaching for the water pitcher.

“Mum’s real disappointed you’re not coming home with us. I tried to tell her you’d be arriving later but she’s still pretty miffed about it,” he said.

Rather than responding, Harri chewed the bread slowly-- it tasted like styrofoam and the cloying taste of disappointment. While her friends were going to be riding the train back to the Burrow, she would be waiting around an empty castle until Dumbledore deemed it the opportune time to summon her. ‘It had better be worth it,’ a frown forming, knowing full and well she would miss the customary beef stew and carrot cake Mrs. Weasley had always made for their first day of the holiday break. Just another thing to add to the running list of let downs.

* * *

* * *

The morning of December 20th was a dreary affair as she had woken up in a sullen mood. Not only was she still helplessly clueless as to what a horcrux was but now her friends, and most of the student body, would be leaving to the warm embraces of their parents and the promises of merriment. Harri watched from afar in a morose state as her roommates flitted about the dormitory, packing up their things and chatting away in a joyous manner. The girl had tried her best to plaster on a smile, to stop the bitter seed of jealousy that was threatening to bloom into something more vile, to laugh alongside them in a hollow manner-- it wasn't working.

It had been her choice to walk with them down to the station's platform, feeling oddly out of place without a trunk at her side-- but she needed the air, the space to think. With a tight smile, Harri had tried to gracefully accept Hermione’s assurances that she would be at the Burrow soon enough, that they wouldn’t dare to do any of their usual festive rituals without her. Ron had even promised not to crack open the new quidditch magazine until she was there, vowing to leave the stash of candy stowed in his closet untouched until all three of them could gorge themselves sick. Not finding herself able to join in with their enthusiasm, she settled for a fleeting hug and despondent wish for safe travels. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow too,’ a silent promise, watching longingly as the pair boarded the scarlet train. 

However, as the steam engine pulled away from Hogwarts, disappearing into the slow spiral of snow that had begun to fall with a puff of white smoke, there was the strangest sense of foreboding. That, perhaps, this was to be the last time she would see the Express, that she would stand on this very platform and wave mournfully to her friends that were rapidly fading into the distance. Though she did attempt to banish the unshakeable feeling, the mind continuously pointing out it was irrational, her heart refused to accept otherwise. 

Instead of taking the thestral pulled carriages, the girl had decided to walk through the ankle-deep snow back to the castle. The inner child in her had always enjoyed winter, the way the cold bit at the tip of her nose and burned her fingertips until they became numb-- the way she could see her own breath crystallize, an irrefutable proof that she was alive, and how the world would become so still, quiet, peaceful. It was the same part to her that foolishly wished it could snow every day for that very reason, to always experience the calmness that accompanied such moments.

By the time she was back in the Great Hall, hands frozen stiff from the sting of the winter air and cheeks insistently chilled to the touch, Harri was the definition of an 'ice cube'. Yet she didn’t entirely mind and felt content enough to unthaw in the heated dining room-- right in the same spot that normally hosted a trio. Lunch was already awaiting her, as well as the scattered pockets of students that had been left behind, and a twinkle overhead immediately caught her attention. Sometime in her absence, the elves had managed to transform the hall into a winter wonderland. A rather impressive tree stood proudly in the corner behind the professors' table, glittering with magically hovering orbs in kaleidoscope colours, and garlands were strewn about the walls. Harri had been consumed by watching the enchanted ceiling produce an exorbitant amount of snowflakes when a note, charmed as a flying bird, landed expectantly upon her full plate. Unfolding it, and grimacing at the gravy that clung to the parchment, brows drew together in contemplation as she scanned the cursive scrawl: ' _Astronomy Tower, 7 pm. - A.D'._

* * *

* * *

The girl had shrugged a simple black jumper over her tee-shirt, having the foresight that the exposed tower would be exceptionally cold at this time of season. ‘Why,’ her thoughts were grumbling, discontent as sluggish feet trudged to the other side of the castle, ‘does he want to meet at the Astronomy Tower?’ It was an odd choice of venue, even she had to admit. Plus, it wasn't exactly the easiest spot to get to either, having been tucked away in a particularly secluded portion of the school. And the spiral staircase was an absolute nightmare at the best of times-- rickety and questionably rusted in some areas. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted anyone to mistakenly overhear their conversation? After all, it wouldn’t be completely odd for him to take extra precautions nor to operate out of an overabundance of discretion. 

Harri had found the Headmaster at the top of the stairs, hands interlaced behind his back and seemingly entranced by the heavy globe of the moon in the sky, pale eyes distant in faraway thought. She coughed awkwardly in an attempt to break him from the reverie, “Professor?”

He jolted slightly at that, as though it had been a shock that she had somehow materialised behind him, and even more so that she had arrived exactly at the agreed-upon time. Dumbledore only spared a second of an appraising sidelong glance before sliding back to the scene before him, tone even yet guarded, “Ah, Harri. Good evening.”

She wandered over to stand by him on the balcony that jutted out from underneath the sloped gable roof, trying her best not to let her teeth chatter at the brutal sting of the wind. Though it was no wonder why Dumbledore had been enthralled by the sky, somehow unable to fully fault his distracted manner when it was such a mesmerising sight to behold-- the star-speckled night provided an inky backdrop for the snowflakes, bright points that almost glowed under the soft light and swirling as though in a playful waltz. Normally, she would have been captivated as well but she was here on a mission, the thrums of anticipation surging strongly, a giddiness inspiring a relentless pounding in her heart.

Harri's voice was tentative as she broke the silence, imploringly cautious, “Professor, why did you call me here?”

A sigh, a heavy sound full of a burden that only he knew of, escaped his thin frame as he turned away from the moon. Rather than lingering in the snow, the man had wandered further into the circular room, mind whirling as a small part of his conscience tried to argue against the plan. Fingers tightened imperceptibly around each other, the skin whitening from the exerted, gripping pressure. ‘Merlin, forgive me.’ It took more strength than he would like to admit to find the slipping threads of his composure, to force the next words out of his mouth. And from behind half-moon glasses, watery eyes critically regarded the shivering form of her-- a girl not yet even in her majority, one who was still so damningly young and innocent to the cruelty of the truth. His heart tightened uncomfortably. 

“Did you know, Harri, that there was a prophecy made about you and Voldemort? 16 years ago and by our very own Divination professor, in fact.”

Emerald eyes widened marginally at the leaked information, and she hurried after him inside, the bitter cold long forgotten. They roamed searchingly over his wizened face, hungry in their attempts to glean any more information, to spot any further tells he may produce as a sign that there was more to come. There were none. Yet, hearing the fact that there was an unknown prophecy, one that involved her, strung her nerves, tightened the cords of them until they threatened to snap. And there was a mild undercurrent of disbelieving anger to that anxiety, a fluttering cadence in her pulse that betrayed her shock. Somewhere out in the world, their fates were foretold, a divining truth-- one that concerned her, was about her life. So why was she just hearing about it now? And what else, exactly, might she still be unaware of? 

“What did it say?” a heavy swallow and a steadily nursed fear that he might deny her the answer, the shuttering expression he was suddenly sporting doing little to inspire confidence.

Dumbledore considered the eager heart-shaped face, the flashing dismay in her eyes, the way she had trailed after him so readily. He squeezed his hand tighter to fight off the mounting guilt, “It mentioned that you would have the power to vanquish the Dark Lord and that he will mark you as his equal in turn. A bit morbid, I’m afraid, as it also stated that neither can live while the other survives.” 

And there it was-- the dawning of revelation marring her features, the war of emotions in that expressive gaze. His attention fixated on the way she had swallowed around a lump in her throat, the column of it bobbing unevenly. Once sure steps suddenly faltered, lurching uneasily as the fundamental truth regarding her relationship to the Dark Lord was processed. The guilt was rising to a tidal wave, a tsunami whispering in a threat to engulf him at any second. 

Harri stumbled over to the silver globe, fingers curling around its iron railing and dazedly watching as it was held in suspension--- lazily rotating about on an unseen axis, the motion smooth, fluid, slow. It made sense all of the sudden as to why Voldemort had targeted her as an infant. She had always wondered what, exactly, had prompted him to do so-- what would possess a grown man to be terrified of a newborn child, of all things? Some part had assumed it was something that her parents had done, that they had angered him so immensely that he had wished to erase their bloodline fully. But then again, another part had always suspected that there was more to it than merely that--- that there was a hidden part to the story being kept from her, concealed and stashed away until the time was right. Knuckles turned colourless as the grip tightened, a little voice whispering to reign in her rising anger, her disappointment before she could react childishly again in front of the man. And yet, for the strangest of reasons, the girl found herself more upset with the Dark Lord than with the Headmaster.

After all, Harri had come to expect Dumbledore lying openly and brazenly-- but Voldemort? What did he say to her once upon a time, that he never _lied_? ‘No, he didn’t lie,’ a resentful thought, the logic embittered, ‘he just didn’t tell me the truth.’ Slowly unclenching her hands, an unwitting wince made itself known at the residual pain of crescent moons imprinted a touch too deeply into the softness of her palms.

With a deep breath, an even longer exhale, she managed a quiet, “I see. It makes sense, I suppose, why he keeps trying to kill me. Because I’m a threat to his power.”

Dumbledore flinched inwardly at her voice, at how small it sounded, how defeated. It was a war in his mind of two truths, both sides struggling to come out on top as the victor. On one hand, she was just a girl-- a student at his school, one that he had seen do remarkable things and who had the potential to do even more in the future. He had watched her grow from afar, had seen her make friends, build a life, a name for herself. Yet, on the other hand, she wasn’t fully human, was she? The true Harri Potter had died that night on October 31st along with Lily and James, the child before him nothing more than an imposter in a shell. Her soul wasn’t entirely her own, a host for something vile, for something parasitic. And if he had been paying more attention, watching her more closely, he would have seen the signs. The way her eyes were a shade of green that no ordinary human could possess, the way her magic would sometimes swell with a stain before it would turn bright once again, how her core always seemed a touch more developed than her peers. A specific memory replayed, one from her third year-- she had come directly to him in despair, lamenting about feeling a growing darkness deep within herself. Considering her parental lineage, it seemed appropriate to just warn her not to give in-- to suppress it, ignore it until it was subdued. But how foolish he had been. Yes, the signs were all there-- he had just been too blind to recognise any of them. 

“Professor,” she ventured in the quiet, drawing him from his thoughts, “I was hoping you could help me with something. I was in the library the other day and I read something rather odd about a piece of rare magic in a footnote. It mentioned the term “horcrux” but I couldn’t find any more information on it. I was, uhm, hoping you could tell me what it is.”

The blood in his veins ran cold-- around him, it was as if the world had been slowed, drowned out by the deafening pulse in his eardrums. He considered it was uncanny of her to bring up the topic, a creeping dread that she had, somehow, managed to read his thoughts. Impossible, he knew, but still disconcerting enough to frantically probe at his constructed occlumency shields, entirely unnerved by the abrupt perceptiveness. The man tried to remind himself, chastising such a fear, that she wasn’t even looking at him-- how could she possibly read his thoughts? That there was no way she could have slipped in unnoticed-- and, anyhow, he would have known if she possessed the predisposition to the arts of the mind. Yet, for the briefest of a second, he couldn't quite help but picture a boy with a cunning smile and an aristocratic face-- a boy whom he had let go on to do terrible, undoubtedly great, but nonetheless terrible things.

The headmaster's voice wavered just slightly, an apprehensive note colouring the words, “That’s quite dark magic, Harri, dark magic indeed. Though I’m not surprised you didn’t find your answer in the library considering I had all texts regarding it removed. It is, essentially, a vessel. When someone places their soul into a container, it keeps them earthbound. In other words, they are unable to die.”

He watched as she turned her head, green eyes almost glowing in the low light of the tower as they fixed themselves upon him. In their depths, he was so sure that he could see pinpricks of crimson swirling, traces that betrayed the true nature of herself. And an unsettling thought planted itself firmly-- was _he_ , perhaps, always watching? Using her eyes as a one-way mirror, making himself privy to every conversation, every interaction he had had with the girl? The tilt of her head, the questioning look in her gaze, and Dumbledore could swear he almost heard _his_ voice coming from _her_ lips. 

“But I don’t understand, Professor. How does one, exactly, place their soul into a container?” 

‘She isn’t human,’ the thought was rationalising, justifying what needed to be done. ‘If she’s left to live, he can never be defeated.’ Dumbledore vainly attempted to stamp down his morality that was vehemently protesting otherwise, the hushed voice championing to find another way.

Harri drifted her attention back to the warped reflection of herself in the mirrored surface of the silver globe, a frown tugging the corners of her mouth downwards. That’s what Voldemort wanted her to find out? It hadn’t sounded so bad-- putting part of your soul into another container for safekeeping. ‘Why,’ she wondered briefly, brows knitting together, ‘was it considered dark magic?’ And then she received her answer.

“Through murder, Harri. Done with intent and in the coldest of blood,” his explanation was barely a murmur.

A chill ghosted through her, unable to prevent the shudder at the words and suddenly comprehending why the books on it had been banished from the library. To murder someone was how one achieved immortality? ‘A life for a life,’ echoed grimly as she studied the orb rotating on its axis, a dizzying tilt in its trajectory. What was Voldemort thinking or trying to tell her by encouraging her to look into something so appalling? Was he trying to say he had done just that? Or that he was preparing to do so? Her mind was whirling, trying to make all of the jagged pieces of the puzzle before her fit congruently when she saw it. In the polished surface, Dumbledore was soundlessly mouthing something and then, in slow motion, his wand was raised-- the tip of it pointed directly between her shoulder blades.

A flash of green filled the room of the tower.


	19. The Wards That Shone Like The Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having so much fun reading everyone's comments for the last chapter so thank you for every single one! The story is going to get a tad more intense from this point out but I hope you'll continue to give me your support! <3
> 
> Thank you as usual! You're all wonderful <3

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* * *

Snape had been pacing the length of his office for the past 10 minutes, trying to work up the nerve to put his plan into motion. A clock ticked on in the background, each passing moment of the second hand an unspoken reminder of how his time was running out. He had only a little over 30 minutes before the Dark Lord would arrive on the flagstone steps of Hogwarts, to spell the downfall of his greatest enemy and finally vanquish The Girl Who Lived. Thirty measly minutes was all he had to ensure her safety, to help her escape the Sword of Damocles swinging over her pretty little head-- an impending danger she wasn't even fully aware of at the moment. 

Coal eyes glanced at the innocuous bottle of wine resting upon his desk, laced with enough dreamless sleep potion to be instantaneous in rendering anyone unconscious. It was difficult to ignore the way his sins were already laying heavy in his chest, an uncomfortable and suffocating weight. He was about to sacrifice one for the other, to trade a life already near its end so the one that had barely started could finish. In all actuality, the plan was simple enough and Snape reminded himself of it obsessively, lips moving without uttering a single verbal sound. ‘Go to his office. Toast for Yule. Grab the girl. Run,’ the steps were repeated over and over again until enough courage had been summoned to follow through, a reckless scheme born out of loyalty to the memory of an already dead woman. Snatching the bottle, the relentless chime of the ending hour chasing him from the office, he stormed from his dungeon to seal the fate of one Albus Dumbledore.

The castle was still, unnervingly quiet, and the dour man had the vaguest notion that it felt almost sinister compared to last year’s holiday. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought with a grimace, ‘Hogwarts knows I'm about to kill its master.’ He had just passed the stairwell leading up to the Astronomy Tower when there was a distinct crash to follow, an alarming sound that disrupted the somber hush. Freezing in his determined path, not quite able to help himself from briefly remarking on how teenagers weren’t even secretive in their liaisons anymore-- then a louder, more insistent thud had promptly followed. The commotion was far too violent sounding for a possible late-night rendezvous, a twisting in the pit of his stomach as intuition screamed that something was amiss. Brandishing the curved wand in one hand, the thin neck of the mead container gripped in the other, he cautiously started up the tower’s winding iron steps.

* * *

* * *

Harri had barely managed to dodge the vivid curse flying out from Dumbledore’s wand, years playing as Gryffindor’s seeker finally having a form of payoff. She landed heavily on her side, rolling hastily to the ground to spring back up onto her feet, heart hammering. Owlish eyes were blown wide in a stupor, a wild sheen to them that relayed the jolt of disbelief as she tried to process what had just transpired. ‘He tried to kill me,’ her thoughts were ladened with distraught panic, mouth suddenly far too parched, uncomfortably dry. The kind headmaster who had always given the best welcoming back speeches, who had attended her matches and cheered her on, who had comforted her in front of the Mirror of Erised when she saw the ghosts of her parents, was attempting to _murder_ her. And suddenly it clicked as to why he had wanted her to come to the Astronomy Tower, to a portion of the castle usually abandoned and so far removed from any signs of life-- the chances of someone interfering were slim, the probability of them finding her body before it cooled even slimmer.

Her voice was shaky, pleading with the hopes of it being a misunderstanding “Pr-professor?” 

However, the coldness in his eyes, the hard glint of determination, wasn’t exactly inspiring faith in her that it had been one. She dodged another sickening flash of light, leaping behind haphazardly stacked crates that clattered to the ground when she jostled them from their resting place. The chambers of her heart were pounding with adrenaline, clenching erratically to push blood down into her legs, despair, and confusion the only clear feelings she had at the moment. _‘Why_ ,’ played over endlessly on a loop as he began to circle the room in a predatory manner, the silver globe at the center broadcasting his every move. She was his student, his protege, his Chosen One. The girl who was his champion, the one meant to defeat the Dark Lord in his stead. The boxes she had sought refuge behind exploded abruptly, and she had only just spun away in time to lunge out of the spellfire's path-- though not quick enough to avoid the errant plank that had clipped her shoulder blade, a pain barely registered. It was unnerving to her that he refused to speak, that he was treating her like a pest that one calmly disposes of swiftly--- like she was an animal he was hunting without remorse.

Harri glanced down helplessly at the wand in her hand, a morbid alarm settling as a heavy weight in her chest. She could barely cast a functioning accio with it, nevermind go toe to toe with a wizard who was highly regarded as one of the best of their time. There was no helping it-- she needed to run, the instinct to flee stronger than that to fight. The girl darted for the darkest corner of the tower, ducking behind the tarp draped over a telescope and praying it could give her momentary respite from the onslaught of spells to figure out a plan. Maybe if she pleaded with him, begged him to tell her what she had done to deserve death, he would come to his senses? After all, there was no logical basis for it. But then she was faced with a sobering fact, an uncomfortable realisation. The man before her, the frail old wizard that looked as though he had spent his nights doing sudoku and drinking chamomile tea with a twist of lemon, was the same one that had once betrayed his childhood friend-- his dearest companion, his lover. That he had defeated someone so dear to him in battle and banished him to a life in a tower surrounded by ice. ‘Compared to that,’ Harri’s stomach clenched, unable to find her breath, ‘I’m nothing.’

In her periphery, the redhead spied the door, wild calculations being made to see if she could make it if she sprinted fast enough-- maybe, with famed Potter's luck backing her, she could reach the stairwell before he could hit her. Then, without warning, she heard the stressed drawl of “Petrificus Totalus!”

Snape had apparently come to her rescue in the most ironic turn of events-- not that she wasn't grateful for such a thing. In fact, Harri had never once been so thankful in her life to hear the grating harshness of his accent or to see him in all of his batlike glory hovering in the door’s frame, wand trembling minutely in his grip. Rising on unsteady legs, clutching at the telescope for support, the girl took a second to study the bound form of Dumbledore lying prone facedown on the ground. The potions master was flitting his gaze in a frenzied manner between herself and the headmaster, silence stretching between the two as they had tried to come to a mutual understanding of what to possibly do next.

He tried to comprehend, to digest, what he had just witnessed from between the slates under the raised platform. Dumbledore had been clearly attempting to kill the girl for reasons he was apparently not privy to--- and she had been barely scraping by the skin of her teeth, dodging the multiple rounds of the killing curse rather than attempting to go on the offense. A bitter grimace coursed through his frame as dark eyes fixated on the frozen headmaster-- frankly, it had been pure luck that he had even managed to land a spell on him, that it was fortuitous the old man's back was turned at the right moment. And while he wasn’t the worst dueler, Snape was all too aware of the sobering fact that his magic wouldn’t be able to bind Albus forever, that, at some point, the Headmaster would be back on his feet. And then, most likely, attempting to dispose of Severus as well for what he had seen. Already the wizard’s fingers were twitching, pale eyes darting behind his glasses in a telling sign his mind was still active, plotting their demises. Snape’s thoughts were racing, intelligible half-formed ideas as he tried to reassess, reevaluate the strategy he had so carefully concocted before this very moment. Someone was needed to occupy Dumbledore, to engage him with enough skill that wouldn’t let themselves be so easily defeated--while, in the meantime, giving the girl the chance to flee. Attention drifted down uneasily to his left arm, rationality briefly demanding if he had a death wish for what he was about to do as his body moved on autopilot, yanking the robe’s sleeve up and past his elbow. Faltering for a second, all choices were desperately weighed for a backup, a way out, a second option-- but, upon finding no such solutions, shaking fingers pressed down onto the mark with a wince.

Harri’s prior relief came crumbling down around her as she watched Snape hike his sleeve up his pale arm, almost not quite believing her eyes. She screamed for him to stop just a second too late, horrified panicked flooding her nerves at the sight of the Dark Mark. “No!”

A beat of silence ensued where they had just both stared at each other with the same amount of alarm, the same amount of trepidation-- a hush of a waiting game for something, for anything, to happen. For a minute, it appeared nothing would, blissful stillness persisting in a void where no sound possibly existed. And then they felt it. The ground beneath their feet started to shake, a deafening crack of several distant apparitions in the background-- such noises faintly reminded Harri of the dry snap of a bone breaking, a testament of the horrors about to come. There was a sharp tang of electricity charging the air, an audible crackling that led to the hairs on their arms standing on end as the two wizards remained rigid, not quite daring to move nor to speak. Without warning, golden light flooded the dim room from the open circular windows of the Astronomy Tower, the sight of a dome, one usually rendered invisible, now suddenly making itself known-- it surrounded the school’s grounds, from the limited view Harri had, to even the edges of the Forbidden Forest. ‘The wards,’ she thought in momentary amazement, marvelling at the beauty of such a thing, at how they flickered and shone like the surface of the sun. 

And then abruptly, the sphere started to melt away-- oozing as corrupting pockets of darkness began to spread over the glittering surface, greedily devouring the spaces it hadn’t quite touched yet. It was mildly horrifying to witness something so pure become pockmarked, hideous almost, shadows leaking in as creeping, hungry tendrils. The magic settled over their skin, sparking between their fingers, an unpleasant bubbling sensation pervading their bodies as the wards finally fell away. ‘He’s dismantling them,’ her thoughts were appalled at the concept, that he was even capable of such large-scale destruction. Draco’s words from the lake distantly unwittingly came back to her as she drank in the gruesome sight of the sun's distortion, of it being utterly eclipsed: _“I’ve never seen someone with so much power before, with so much control over magic.”_ And at this moment, she couldn’t help but begrudgingly agree with the assessment, some part of her faintly considering how she ever thought she could even triumph over him, could beat him back.

As quickly as the cacophony of rising sound had begun, it died, trailing back off into an unsettling silence. Harri studied her professor's dismayed countenance, the complete quiet unnerving after the loudness that had just preceded it.

“What did you do?” she hissed but somehow already knowing the answer-- though she may have, unknowingly, invited the monster into their home, he had just thrown the doors wide open to usher it in like an old friend.

Then he was there in her mind-- a feeling that struck without warning. It was quite unexpected in the way he had appeared on the peripheral boundaries of her consciousness, the accompanying fury one so strong that it made her throat parched, and her knees quiver. The last time they had been even remotely in the same place was at Diagon Alley-- yet she could have sworn his presence now was more concentrated, pressing down heavily, dominating, more oppressive than ever before. It caused her heart to seize for a second, breath robbed by an acute sting in her scar. Harri couldn’t help but sink to her knees at the sheer intensity of the pain, of the sensations, biting out a scream and clutching her temples. Only barely did she register as Snape fell beside her in unease, hands hovering about her doubled- over form in uncertainty. She took it all back-- he was beyond fury, beyond enraged. He was a tempestuous storm come to seek chaos, a tidal wave eager to swallow everything in its path, a supernova ready to implode and plunge them all into the abyss. He was Death itself.

* * *

* * *

Voldemort stood still on the other end of the stone bridge leading into Hogwarts, chest heaving with exertion and a light sheen of sweat decorating his brow. The chasm below them was gaping its maw in anticipation, eager to swallow those who made even the slightest misstep--- and he, briefly, considered how he and the canyon were very much alike in that regard. He too wished to swallow his enemies, to ensure they never once again saw the light of day, all thoughts consumed by one in particular. The yew wand hung limply in his grip, thrumming hotly, far too overheated by the sheer amount of magic he had just pushed through it. Crimson eyes glanced down for a moment to take note of the crack that was beginning to form in its handle, a threat of what was to come if pushed any further. But he had done it. The crowd of Death Eaters, his acolytes at his back all bearing witness to the power that was their Lord-- the fury, the greatness, the might. He had looked on in unresponsive awe as the wards fell before him, crumbling to his magic, to his will. And there before him, with its protections stripped and destroyed, was the glittering estate of Hogwarts-- his first home and current fortress that was intent on still shielding his prize. 

Awe quickly gave way to the fury that exploded within himself, a vile, implacable thing in his core that demanded blood and atonement. He had played the bystander to the memories Snape pushed through the mark, had beheld the way the Headmaster was intent on destroying his vessel, his most coveted thing, in a futile attempt to vanquish Lord Voldemort. And oh, how his magic sang for divine retribution, to see the fall of the great Albus Dumbledore as he plummeted down from the heavens-- to see his battered body bleeding upon the flagstones and lifeless head on a spike. The Death Eaters behind him had begun to shift anxiously, awaiting for their Lord to make the first step-- to lay claim to what he had just so easily conquered. And so he did. One step on the stone bridge and his loyal army began to file across it, all too eager to prove their worth, their devotion, to sate whatever whim he may have. 

“Find the girl,” he instructed, a savageness resting in his tone that demanded no response, “keep her _unharmed_ but leave Dumbledore to me.


	20. The Battle In Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm so happy to see that the response on the last two chapters has been so positive and I've received so many kind words from you all! Thank you so much, you guys are all seriously amazing <3
> 
> Enjoy! <3

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She blinked in a daze, trying to clear the fog of pain from her mind as she took in the unfocused shape of Snape hovering above her. The outline of him was fuzzy, distant, entirely too distorted to make any sense of. Voldemort was _here---_ had finally entered the castle with the intent to destroy and maim. An angry god descended down from the heavens with spiteful vengeance his only driving goal. And the girl would be lying if she said such a thing didn't fill her to the brim with an unholy terror.

Harri was only given a passing second of momentary reprieve before being yanked roughly up to her feet, Dumbledore finally beginning to stir in the background-- only distantly did a firm grip curled around her arm register through the muddled thoughts, tightening fingers steering her to the stairwell. It felt as though she was being forcibly held underwater, that the more she attempted to focus on Snape’s whispered instructions, the more obscure and foreign they sounded.

“Go to Hogsmeade and get to the inn. There’s a floo parlor for you to use there. Think of any place you can-- as long as it's far from here,” he commanded, pulling her dragging feet across the wooden flooring and pushing her not so kindly down onto the first step.

It was starting to become apparent that she would have to make this journey alone and, as he apprehensively studied the twitching form of the headmaster, it would probably be for the best. The Dark Lord would have been able to track them if he went with her anyway, the mark his arm bore a homing beacon that could never be destroyed-- his permanent collar, a shackle about his own neck. 

Snape’s grip flexed on his wand's handle, forcing his attention to the girl blinking blearily up at him. Truly, it was the most inopportune moment to be reminded of Lily-- yet he thought of her nonetheless. He would save this child, _her_ child, in a form of atonement for his sins that had led to her death, the destruction of his dearest love, of his heart. The somber man noted the girl’s unwillingness to flee, how her steps had faltered in uncertainty, an adamant refusal so clearly resting upon the tip of her tongue. It wasn’t until he had pushed a burst of magic towards the center of her chest, urging the witch to move, to have even an ounce of self-preservation, did she finally take another shaky step.

“Go on, Potter. _Run_!” he begged as she backed down the stairwell slowly, his sneer offset by the panic shining brightly in those coal eyes. 

The door swung shut on its own accord, a resounding click as he eyed it for a heartbeat, desperately hoping she had taken his advice to heart. And then the strangest thought had occurred to him just then, as shaking feet whirled on the spot to throw up a hastily constructed shield against a stream of purple light barrelling his way--- when had he become such a reckless Gryffindor? The spell fizzled out, an overwhelming feeling of arrestingly cold horror surging at the sight of hardened eyes glinting behind half-moon glasses. 

* * *

* * *

Harri was rushing down the stairs, taking the stone steps two at a time with adrenaline to fuel her forward. ‘They’re here,’ her thoughts were edged with hysteria, ‘Death Eaters, him, they’re all here.’ Glancing wildly down the corridor, left and then right, mind spinning to decide which direction to possibly take-- she sprinted towards the courtyard. The girl, for the briefest of moments, did wonder why Snape was even telling her to run, to escape when he had just revealed himself as a Death Eater. After all, he was a loyal follower who had summoned his Lord, had joined in Voldemort's dark crusade against the light. But in the end, he was correct. If she could only get to Hogsmeade, she could escape, go get help-

The stone walls shook violently without warning, throwing her already unsteady steps further off-balance as thin hands clung to a nearby archway for stability. She peered over her shoulder in unbridled dismay, the air suddenly becoming too thick, too cloying to breathe in. It felt as though it had coated her lungs, fully intent on replacing the oxygen in them with its own corrupting miasma, persistent on circulating throughout her veins. Harri panted shallowly, the pain in her scar reduced to a continuous dulling throb, and she couldn't help but note with panicked awareness that her skin felt too tight, too stretched. And then it dawned upon her that the changes in the charged atmosphere were traces of _his_ magic--- the oppressive aura that clung to him, exuded outwards in suffocating, rolling waves. Another violent quake and, this time, a deafening crack of stone falling in the distance ensued. ‘He’s trying to bring down the castle.’

* * *

* * *

He had appeared in the Astronomy Tower from the shadows, darkness dripping from his form as it knitted together to materialise into something more solid. A monster born from its depths, an unholy creation of the void’s own making-- one that had finally come for the blood promised to him. Voldemort stood impassively, eyes nearly glowing as two pinpoints of searing scarlet, critically studying in the prone form of Severus Snape sprawled out on the ground. The normally composed man was battered, ragged, startling bruises blooming across his sallow complexion, and glistening with a sheen of sweat that relayed how hard he had fought. Yes, he had done well enough to prove his loyalty tonight--- and the Dark Lord always rewarded such promising behaviour. With a sweeping arc of his wand, as though the beaten man slumped against the wall was a mere sack of flour, an inanimate object to be displaced at will, the potions master disappeared from existence with one accompanying thought: ‘Heal him.’

It was only then that he stepped forward from the cover of darkness, bone-white wood twirling in an offhanded manner between elegant fingers.

“Dumbledore,” the tone was even, an underlying frigidness to it that was comparable to the chill in the night's air. Voldemort moved further into the pools of moonlight, the severe black robes trailing softly on the ground and kissing his feet with reverence.

In turn, Dumbledore watched warily, trusting the calm demeanor of the wizard before him just as much as one trusted the sudden calm before a storm. Gnarled and warped fingers curled tightly around the knobbed stick in his palm, an attempt to calm himself, to justify he held the wand of power and, therefore, the upper hand in this situation. Yet, it hadn’t escaped his notice as he observed, from behind crescent moon glasses, the way the Dark Lord had honed in on the motion, greed causing those hellfire eyes to _burn_.

“You shouldn’t have come here tonight, Tom. The others will be waking soon, no doubt to your theatrics, and the Aurors will have been called,” he warned softly, thoughts a dizzying speed as he tried to formulate an impromptu strategy.

At such an insubstantial excuse, a flimsy caution, Voldemort couldn’t quite stop the indulgent smile from unfurling on his face-- the all too sharp row of teeth were revealed as lips pulled back, the stare alight with a perverse glee at the desperate attempts to cow him, to reprimand and chastise. It may have worked, once upon a time, when he was still a schoolboy and desperate for the man’s approval, for his whole-hearted acceptance. But that was decades ago-- and that child was long gone, lost to the ages even though his face may have remained the same. A click his tongue, a derisively mock show of hurt as he stepped to mirror the Headmaster’s circling path. Their dance was starting.

“Oh come now, we both know that I have not arrived here alone. Pray that your professors can fend off my hounds, Dumbledore, for that is the only way you will escape with your life tonight,” there was a heady thrum of anticipation simmering under his indifferent mask, crimson eyes locked steadily and refusing to stray.

“And then what of Harri, Tom? What will you do with her?” Dumbledore questioned in response, voice hesitant, almost hopeful, as though wanting to hear aloud that he would destroy the girl in the end-- and, unknowingly, himself in the process.

The yew wand stilled in its lazy twirl, the smile sliding from his face at the gall of the Headmaster. He had dared to so casually use her name, to stare at him with such bright expectation hidden behind that insufferable twinkle--- as though he wished nothing more than to snuff the life from the Girl-Who-Lived. He had dared to hope he would harm his soul's vessel, destroy it-- and, apparently, the old man was banking on the fact that he was unaware of the witch's true nature. But what had disgusted him the most was the keenness in the question, in the demented expectancy she would be dead before the night was even up. The girl that which Dumbledore had sworn to protect, to raise, to teach-- yet all of those sentiments were pointless, moot, nulled. Instead, he was tossing her aside, feeding her to the proverbial wolves in his place. 

At this point, his fury wasn’t a boiling, heated thing, one that threatened to consume in flame and smoke--- no, it was quite the opposite. Rather, it was cold, glacial, the kind that made the tips of one’s fingers go numb and for the heart to freeze over. His answer for the inquiry had taken the form of a quick burst of a yell, arms thrown wide as magic, as dark and vile and cold as the wrath thriving in his chest, sprang forth into existence. The fragments of shadow, pointed and malicious as they tore through the air in the older wizard's direction, shredded easily through the hastily constructed protego. A few errant pieces, the ones that had skirted around the shield, sliced through the stone walls instead--- the castle shook in response to the unexpected assault, valiantly trying to bear the brunt of such an impassioned display.

A moment passed before Voldemort noticed, with no small amount of vindictive glee, that cuts had begun to appear on Dumbledore’s body where the shield was unable to hold against the vicious onslaught. Attention fixated obsessively on the lines of red welling along his papery skin, ruby red staining the garishly purple robes, and immense satisfaction rising at the thought that crossed his mind-- ‘Even the great Albus Dumbledore can bleed.’ And then water rushed out from the tip of the elder wand, an overpowering amount that battered against his own protections, seeking to drown him, to wash away his impurities, his very existence.

The final battle had begun.

* * *

* * *

Screams and shouts echoed in the corridors as those remaining in the castle were roused by the quakes, by the burnt smell of the wards being forcefully shattered, and the sudden heaviness of dark magic, thick and heady, permeating the air. Everywhere she had looked, there were flashes of light in her periphery, shadows dancing on the walls as spellfire was traded without fanfare or warning. It was like she had been dropped into a waking nightmare, that the carnage and destruction she had been anxiously waiting for had finally arrived within the stone halls of the school.

Harri forced herself to keep running, to not go towards every cry or shriek that ricocheted off the limestone walls--- because she knew, deep down, that if she escaped the castle, he would eventually follow in pursuit. And with a temperamental wand that only half-listened, what was the best she could really do? If anything, the girl would be a hindrance more than a help, a liability to any she tried to aid. That _had_ been her motto, her plan, when she saw on the boundaries of her vision, down the adjacent corridor, the Charms professor being cornered. 

The part-goblin looked exhausted, as though he had been fighting for hours-- it was evident in the way his steps had faltered, his shoulders drooping, and the slight tremor in his hands. And as a Death Eater, a woman dressed in obscenely tight clothing with a mass of black curls wildly cascading down her back, rounded on him from behind, she couldn’t just stand by to watch. Because Harri Potter was a bleeding heart through and through, a well-known fact by any that knew her-- and possessed such an inconvenient saviour complex that it would have had Freud drooling. Without fully thinking, the girl had charged down the hall, mentally threatening the wand that if it didn’t work, she would snap it right here, right now to end its miserable existence. 

“Expelliarmus!” it was a moment of triumph when a corkscrew of crimson light sprung forth, hitting the witch squarely in the back and sending the oddly curved wand flying from talon-like nails. It clattered noisily somewhere further down the corridor, silence following for a beat of a second.

It had taken the Death Eater a moment to process what had just transpired, whirling around with a surprised ‘oh’ plastered onto her face-- untempered fury lent those onyx eyes a glittering sheen, lighting them up from their endless depths. The woman looked like she desired nothing more than to hex whoever had dared to ruin her surprise attack, to tear into their flesh with her clawed nails, and to revel in their spilled blood. But then she saw who was standing a few feet away, manic glee giving way and transforming her countenance into an almost unnervingly child-like state.

“There she is! There’s Harri Potter!” she screeched, the accompanying laugh grating as she hopped from foot to foot, bouncing in an uncontained excitement. 

The two wizards flanking the dark-haired witch's side had trained their wands upon her without instruction, an alarming sight that made her stomach lurch in turn. Not waiting to find out what spells they had brewing in their thoughts, Harri spun on the heels of her worn sneakers and forced screaming legs to pump faster. Arms swinging wide and breaths laboured, she willed herself to flee, for her feet to gain wings and to grant her the distance she so desperately needed from the ensuing trio. In the back of her mind, Snape's assessment of 'foolish girl' looped-- and the redhead found herself unable to fully disagree with the phantom words, a slew of curses muttering softly as green eyes frantically searched for a side entrance to slip into. Behind her, the heavy footfalls persisted, the sounds a reminder of the hounds closing in, nipping with gaping maws at her ankles. Then there was a spell, a stinging sensation that elicited a sharp cry of pain to bubble up from her throat-- glancing down with horror, she tried not to retch at the sight of burnt flesh. Whatever it was had seared through the fabric of the jumper, grazing her shoulder and grotesquely blistering the skin in the process. 

Down the hall, there was a distinct smack of a hand against flesh, an outraged cry following, “You idiot! The Dark Lord wants her unharmed!” 

Her mind, distantly, made note of that, filing it away to dissect at a later date when she wasn’t being chased by three Death Eaters intent on capturing her. 

* * *

* * *

She had skidded around the corner at an alarming speed, nearly crashing into the stooped form of Mad-eye. Cool relief flooded her as she gripped the thickly corded forearm for stability, able to feel the exorbitant amount of scar tissue from even from under the leather coat, bent over and panting heavily.

“Professor!” she gasped, heart still beating a touch too fast against the confines of her ribs, lungs burning.

In the background, the heavy slaps of feet against the stone drew closer, a chaotic screech of upset splitting the air, “Find her, you idiots! She couldn’t have gotten far.”

An assessing glint entered the one good eye of her professor and she watched in mild interest the way he had glanced warily around the empty hall, tilting his head to hear better--- residual instincts leftover from his time as an Auror, she figured. A tongue darted to the corners of his mouth as he had given a firm nod, heavy hands clamping down about her wrist and drawing her towards an empty classroom. 

“In here, Potter.” he shoved the girl into the space, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

The refreshing tingle of a Notice-Me-Not charm settled over their skins and he held a finger to his scarred lips, a nonverbal signal for her to remain quiet. Harri held her breath, not even daring to exhale as the pursuing Death Eaters paused just outside of the classroom. Green eyes watched through the slated windows as the witch in the trio slapped the back of her companions' heads, demanding that they continue their search and reprimanding them for their stupidity. After a few seconds, they had moved on and she nearly slumped down the wall in relief, the tension that knotted her stomach finally lessening. But now that the immediate threat had passed, her mind felt it appropriate to pay heed to the burn mark, the excruciating spread of residual heat and acute aching spreading down the length of her arm. Gingerly trying to lift the singed fabric away from the blisters, an unbidden wince and a barely held-in cry of pain made themselves known when fingers had accidentally brushed the tender skin. It was an ugly sight to behold, the pale complexion an angry red and marred with nauseating divots, the weeping edges charred black. Mad-eye had taken one look at the wound, frowning at the sight and vehemently muttering incoherent ramblings under his breath. Harri only managed to catch the rushed word of “halfwits” before he hobbled his way to the front of the room.

Urgently shuffling through the glass jars upon his desk, searching for what she did not know, he asked her in a distant tone of wonderment, “Did you see him-- The Dark Lord? Who was with him?” 

Harri pondered how he knew it was the Dark Lord at their gates, considering that she hadn’t said anything remotely about him-- yet she just assumed that perhaps another professor had gotten him a message somehow. Her response came in the form of a slight shake of her head, breath long gone and still too laboured to clearly speak as she leaned heavily against a desk. Though as her heartbeat had begun to settle, clarity began to come back now that she had a moment of respite.

Opening her mouth to suggest that they keep moving, to ask what he had been looking for, and to offer assistance, she was rendered silent by the strangest possible sight. The professor's skin was beginning to ripple, voice changing in pitch, and patches of sandy brown hair peeking through the blond. And then it hit her where she had seen the exact same symptoms before, the rapid changes in appearance. It was back in her second year when she, Hermione, and Ron had all used polyjuice to sneak into the Slytherin common room in search of answers regarding the chamber. And even now, the girl could still feel the phantom itch when she had morphed back into her original self-- an uncomfortable process that she wasn't too keen to ever repeat. ‘The flask,’ the thought was a revelation, things clicking into place as to why he was always nipping at it. Part of her had considered it was a severe case of alcoholism. Who could blame him after the life he had led? But no-- it had been polyjuice potion. Whoever he was, he wasn’t Mad-eye and, considering the timing of everything, it filled her with trepidation to acknowledge.

Harri tried to remain as quiet as possible, as still as she could without arousing suspicion, thin fingers wrapping around the wand and silently pleading with it to work for a second time in a row. “Stupefy!”

Bright vermillion light shot forth, hitting the man between his shoulder blades--- she could nearly cry in relief that it had listened to her. However, while the wand had cooperated, it also decided to put far more power than necessary into the simple spell and had launched the wizard halfway across the room. A sickening crack resounded as his head collided with the stone wall, crumpling down into a heap as the visage of a young man replaced the grisly scarred face. The girl had noticed, belatedly, the Dark Mark that was beginning to etch its way onto the skin of his left forearm.

'They're everywhere,’ the inner-voice was coated in thinly veiled horror as she wasted no time in rushing out from the room.


	21. 'Harri-Hunting'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy everyone! <3

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Her sneakers echoed dully against the stone tiles and she tried not to think about the fact that there were polyjuiced professors roaming about the school. Who else was possibly lying? Who else could she really trust, at this point, to be who they claimed they were? A particularly loud scream from somewhere within the castle made her wince, thoughts evaporating into nothingness and bringing her back to the present. Harri had almost turned down the left corridor when tensed voices floated out from further down, instructing unfamiliar names to go in various directions. Managing to skid to a halt just in time, her burnt shoulder smacked uncomfortably against the limestone-- however, the throbbing pain was barely registered as the sight of the courtyard drew nearer. By this point, the snow had gathered in mounting inches since her earlier trudging walk, a thick carpet of white blanketing the Earth. The girl broke free into the night air, the chill ignored as the surges in adrenaline coursing flushed her skin warmly. An auburn head snapped to peer back at the destroyed castle, stubbornly pressing onwards and not quite believing her luck that she had even made it outside.

“Potter!” she collided headfirst into a solid chest, hands shooting out to grip her shoulders.

A sharp hiss of agony when fingers had pressed into the blistered skin-- they lowered themselves abruptly to rest about her upper arms instead, almost apologetic in nature. Green eyes blinked up to see the distraught face of Draco, his normally calm blue eyes alight with unspoken nerves and tension.

“What are you still doing here?!” he demanded, gaze darting about the courtyard to see if anyone was watching them. And then he noticed how the girl in his hold had relaxed minutely, the trust in her wide eyes turning his mouth to acid, his heart to constrict violently.

“Draco! Oh thank Merlin,” she breathed out in relief, rushing to explain what was happening, “He’s here, Draco, in the castle. I bumped into Mad-eye, but he’s not really Mad-eye."

"And Snape--” she bit her tongue as an uncomfortable realisation settled in her chest, stomach clenching at the thought. 

Draco was _here_ even though she had clearly watched him leave on the Express. He was here and that could only mean one thing-- he had arrived with the Dark Lord. Suddenly the hands upon her felt less comforting and more constraining, restricting, threatening.

The girl tried to shrug them off, tone accusing as she reflected back to Lucius's impromptu visit during the school year, “Your father! That’s what he was doing that day, wasn’t it? He was finding weak spots in the wards!”

The blond boy dragged her struggling form over to the shadows, a nervous tick in his jaw, and a tightness in the lines at the corner of his mouth. A shaky low sigh escaped him, having deemed it safe enough for the moment to speak freely.

“Why didn’t you leave the second you felt the wards fall?” he questioned, voice sharp in its urgency. Begrudgingly, he was amazed she had even made it this far without being caught-- especially considering how many followers the Dark Lord had brought with him. 

A distant shake, the quake a vibrating rumble, drew both of their attention and he grimaced at the alarming crack of a stone being cleaved in two.

“I-” she was about to confess all about Snape, about Dumbledore, when strange voices had interrupted her-- the distinct words floating out of ‘check the courtyard’ causing her to stiffen. The Slytherin had a similar reaction, one of terror, as the shouting came closer, looming with an unspoken threat. Harri tried yanking herself from his grasp but the strength in it was unyielding. 

“Draco! Draco, please,” the beg was soft, whispered, the grip not lessening as pale eyes glazed over, unfocused. Fear crowded her mind that he was going to turn her over, that, perhaps, he was more loyal to his Lord than he had initially let on-- and she had been too stupid, too naive not to see it

Gaze narrowing a fraction at the nearing shouts, the boy tried to formulate a plan, a strategy, _anything_ that could buy her enough time to get off of the school’s grounds. And then she began thrashing in earnest, striving endeavours to break free. One look of those pleading green eyes, desperation and fear making them glint wetly in the moonlight, and he dropped his hands immediately. The hawthorn wand was slipped from its holster, mentally berating himself for the stupidity in what he was about to do.

“You owe me big time, Potter. And please, for the love of all things holy, don’t get caught.”

The redheaded girl watched as he had shouted in surprise, startling at the unexpected outburst-- the brilliant yellow sparks he had sent into the air temporarily blinding, flashing from even behind closed lids. He chanced a quick glance towards her, a boyish smile plastered on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes, before sprinting down the northern corridor. Harri did allow herself a moment to admire his loyalty, his bravery, an appreciation for him blooming warmly somewhere deep in her chest. With a silent prayer for him not to do anything too reckless, she took off stumbling down the sloped hill, darting for the treeline.

* * *

* * *

Voldemort stood over the gasping form of Dumbledore laying prone at his feet, his own chest rapidly rising and falling with exertion, with exhaustion. Crimson eyes bounced about the destroyed room of the tower, belatedly realising the destruction they had reaped in their duel, in their dance of death. Large pieces of stone had been blown out from their resting places in the walls, the wood flooring charred and cracked in some places-- even the roof hadn't been spared, some spots now sporting gaping pockets where the ceiling had caved in. And the silver globe lay scattered in a cloud of fine dust underneath them, courtesy of a clever little maneuver Dumbledore had tried to pull on him.

But in the end, it was he who loomed over the older wizard. It was he who was victorious, who had pulled an unwilling Albus Dumbledore down from his throne in the Heavens and into Hell. Fingers skirted over the widening fracture in his wand, the wood and core straining against the amount of magic that had been forced through it during just the past few hours alone. It was a pity, indeed, to lose such a fine one-- but he had an even better prize awaiting him. 

The Dark Lord spied the Elder wand a few feet away, having rolled from the weakened hands of its master, its allegiance shifted the moment that he had fallen in surrender. Polished shoes took measured steps over to it, the choking and wheezing of his greatest enemy in the background a sweet song seemingly composed just for him. Sliding the yew stick into the pocket of his sleeves, he reached for the fabled hollow-- his eyes widened, minutely, at the amount of raw power, of sheer magic, coursing through it, greeting him eagerly as if an old friend. Yes, this was his true match, a wand that was worthy and able to withstand his will. A cough, wet sounding, seized his attention, interrupting his musings. Crimson bloomed in a puddle, spreading its stain over the plank flooring where Dumbledore had rolled to his side and spat onto the ground.

“The pro-phecy,” the bearded wizard rasped out, a cut above his right brow dripping tears of ruby into the eye below. He desperately tried to blink it away to focus his rapidly dimming sight on the monster before him.

“Oh Dumbledore, you truly are a fool,” he crooned, smile a savage, wild thing.

Voldemort crouched down beside the headmaster for a moment, red eyes holding a feral satisfaction as they evenly met the headmaster's petrified gaze. “I carve out my own destiny, shape it to my will. A prophecy means nothing to me. Not anymore.”

He raised back up to hover over the body, despising the way clarity had briefly come back into those pale eyes, the assessing twinkle hidden behind half-moon glasses. The wand thrummed in his hand as though reading his thoughts and urging him to follow through.

A perverse wave of pleasure, capricious in nature as it squirmed in his chest, he intoned softly, almost tenderly, “Avada Kedavra.”

Verdant lightning seized the aged body and the glint vanished from those eyes, extinguished as the soul was forcibly departed. He had done it, had conquered his greatest foe, had made the invincible Albus Dumbledore mortal-- finally humbled before him. The need to memorialize this moment filled him to the brim, a desperate wish that clawed the inside of his chest raw. Glancing up between the exposed patches of the parapet roof, and seeing the moon hang heavily in the sky, innocent and waiting to be corrupted, an notion came to him.

The knobbed wand was pointed upwards, a soft mutter, “Morsmordre.”

A green aura of flickering radiance materialised, the shape of a skull forming as the shimmering particles drew together in a cluster. He watched approvingly as the jaw extended, a snake writhing out from its gaping mouth. It always sent a thrill coursing through him, seeing his mark bared in the celestial heavens for all to see-- his claim cemented for all to see.

Voldemort turned to leave, eager to claim the second prize he had come here for, only pausing long enough to release a snake-shaped fiendfyre into the room. It curled around the corners, around every edge, greedily devouring whatever it could in its path with its flames. He watched, passively, as it began to swallow the body of Dumbledore in its inferno, erasing all physical evidence of the headmaster’s presence-- of what had occurred here tonight. And he knew, as he considered the gruesome sight, that he wouldn’t stop until every single trace, every mention, every memory of the mighty Albus Dumbledore was eradicated from history. 

The Dark Lord apparated away from the tower, attention now entirely focused on a girl with red hair and too green of eyes. 

* * *

* * *

Weaving through the trees, it took her a second to realise, much to her distress, that it was snowing heavily out. And, while she would have loved it any other time, now it had become a nuisance, an added challenge. Why? Because snow left footprints. Physical traces of where she was heading, a trail far too easy to track. Harri leaned against a winter barren trunk to catch her breath, grimacing at the number of impressions she had left in her scramble to get to safety. Unfortunately, the moment of reprieve only lasted a second before she felt a surge of displeasure on the borders of her mind, of an emotion she could only equate to how a predator must feel when his cornered prey eludes him. Voldemort was finally on the move, it seemed, to join in on the fun. An unbidden dark thought crossed her mind-- this was turning into a rather high stakes version of her cousin’s favourite pastime of ‘Harri-Hunting’. 

Voices began to flood the forest, deranged laughter bouncing through the deadened trees as she heard a sickly-sweet voice croon, “Harrikins! Come out, come out wherever you are!”

That was the only motivation she needed. The girl willed tired legs to move, bursting through the snow with renewed bouts of energy as a shriek of joy rang out--- a purple spell hit the trunk by her head and singed the bark. It was moments like these she wished she could apparate, that she knew how to, her muscles burning from exhaustion as the wolves became ever so closer to descending on her.

And then the oddest sense of self-satisfaction blindsided her, vile and twisted in nature that spoke volumes to the sin he had just committed. Harri stopped short, panicked at the possibility of what it might mean, mind immediately conjuring up images of Snape, Draco-- even Dumbledore. An explosion split the air. It cleaved the silence of the forest and her moment of worry, a deafening roar that shook the ground under her feet. 

Whirling around, green eyes darted about in a wild search to identify the source, to see what further destruction had been reaped tonight. Her heart sank, a heavy pit settling in her stomach. The Astronomy Tower was in flames. Set ablaze, its orange glow was licking the wooden parapets, devouring the shingles as though alive--- far too hungry and demanding to be sated. It was jarring to see such violence set against the tranquil night sky, the smoke beginning to already overshadow the full moon. And just above the tallest peak of the tower, glittering green and twisting around the blackened smoke was the Dark Mark. The stinging in her scar increased slightly at the sight of the sigil painted in the sky. A flicker of triumph on the boundaries of her consciousness, a single one springing to the forefront--- _‘There you are.’_

* * *

* * *

All the warning she had was crack. A sharp sound, similar to a gunshot, before he was there. A possessive arm had found itself encircled around her waist, a too-large hand clutching at her throat and tightening just slightly on the soft pulse point beneath her jaw-- the grip forced her head upwards to the night sky. A body, too large, too solid, too _real_ , was pressed up against her back, the heat of it warming her chilled skin. 

This was different from her dreams, she realised with morbid fascination. There, she could wake and he would be gone--- could act with abandon because the threat of death wasn’t as _real_. In them, she hadn’t felt as powerless, as small, as she did now with him molding himself to her and too keen to fill in every possible space. The scent of sweet smoke washed over her and she could feel the spark of magic, a swirling darkness that elicited goosebumps to prickle and hair to rise. It was licking at her skin in greed, in a silent claim. 

Harri could hear her own pulse drumming in her ears and she wondered, distantly, if the hand at her throat could feel it too-- if it was sensing how her heart was pounding in anxiety and dread, a racing tempo that threatened to burst. She hated the fact that the answer was ‘ _yes_ '. That he was, more than likely, revelling in her fear and that there was no possible way to fake she wasn’t shaking. The useless wand slipped from numbing fingers with a soft thud-- it disappeared, consumed by the blanket of white coating the ground. 

“I have finally caught you, Harri Potter,” he nearly purred in victory, in triumph at finally having his hands on her.

And it was even more _glorious_ than he had ever envisioned, than he could have ever imagined. The way her pulse was fluttering under his the pads of his fingers, the way she had gone both limp and rigid in his grasp--- how perfectly slotted she was against him. In every which way possible, she was _made_ for him. The hand at her throat pushed her head even further back, encouraging her to look past the flames spewing out from the tower and to the constellations--- to his mark, to his claim. Voldemort leaned down to whisper, the shiver coursing through her slight frame when his lips brushed the shell of her ear not going unnoticed. He doubted it was entirely from the cold. 

“Do you see, Harri, how the heavens divine my name in their stars? How they speak of my glory, of my triumph, in this very moment? I have done the impossible tonight and what no other man has attempted to do before me. Lessers have thought Hogwarts to be impenetrable but I have brought it to heel, have given it a new master.” 

He chuckled. It was a low sound that made his chest vibrate in turn, amusement found in the way she had imperceptibly whimpered when the arm on her waist constricted--- the hand at her throat pressed unyieldingly until an auburn crown rested upon his shoulder. The exposed column of her neck was a mesmerizing sight and the urge to bite into it, to taste her blood between his teeth and mark her, was almost overwhelming. The girl had finally begun to struggle and his tongue clicked mockingly at the futile efforts. An experimental squeeze on the vulnerable point of the exposed pulse, an unspoken threat--- blooming satisfaction when she had immediately stilled in her squirming.

“Remember the stars, Harri. Remember them well.”

They apparated away without much fanfare, an inward hiss as the fabric of time was shredded and bent to his will. The spot where they had once been was demarcated by two sets of footprints and a wand buried deep in the snow.


	22. Feral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all of my lovely readers! Thank you for showing me, and this fic, so much love in the comments recently!! I am so so excited to finally move forward with this story and have so many fun scenes planned out that, hopefully, you will all love!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy <3

* * *

* * *

When they had finally rematerialised into existence, it was to a room she was immensely acquainted with and one that she could never have even imagined she would see in person-- his study. Harri wondered, wildly, if this was where he was going to do it, where he was going to end her existence and finally fulfill the prophecy. He was still holding her in the restraining embrace from the forest, an ache in her neck flaring as bright spots of pain as he refused to let her move from the awkward angle, the arm on her waist still pressing her against him. An image of a snake wrapping around its prey, ready to squeeze the life from it and devour it whole, formed in her mind-- it did little to calm the strung nerves. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep her head, to think of a plan, when her only thoughts were of how warm he was, an unexpected discovery on her end-- and that she immediately needed to get out of his hold if she wanted a chance.

Harri started to thrash, wincing as the arm around her middle dug into the softness of her stomach, the vulnerable spot right below her ribs.

“Let me go!” she hissed, hating how her neck was exposed, that she couldn’t see his face.

“As you wish,” Voldemort released his grip on her, watching her stumble without him supporting her small frame.

He watched with immense delight as she spun around to glare at him, drinking in the way her hand had drifted up to her throat to the exact spot where his had been-- the way it trembled imperceptibly. Even though she was now longer slotted against him, the traces of her warmth were still felt, the phantom pulse thrumming erratically beneath his fingertips. A fierce desire, a base and vulgar thing clawing between the empty spaces of his ribcage, sang of wanting to hold her more-- to revel in his victory, to ensure she was real and not a specter produced by his imagination. He doubted she had even noticed it, amidst the height of her panic, but there had been a distinct lack of pain stemming from their contact. It had, in fact, been quite the opposite. Pleasurable almost as he felt the horcrux’s pull, its needy pleas to be connected to the original soul. The Dark Lord leaned against the walnut desk to see what she would do, taking some sense of warped pleasure in the fact she looked like a deer in headlights, a rabbit being cornered.

She studied him, trying to discern his next moves, half-expecting him to yell two little words and fill the room with a flash of green. Harri moved to grab a wand that wasn’t there and she was, uncomfortably, reminded of a rather similar encounter once upon a time. One in which she had found herself in this very same study and equally underprepared as she was now. In fact, there were quite a few memories based in this room that she wished to forget and she, faintly, wondered if he had brought her here just for that reason. ‘Sadistic bastard,’ the thought contained no little amount of resentment.

“Get on with it,” she stated boldly, thankful that her voice hadn’t quivered despite her knees feeling like they were about to give out. At least she could pretend to not be scared, to face a death she wasn’t ready for with false bravado. ‘Merlin be damned,’ she thought adamantly, ‘if he thinks I’ll beg.’

Crimson eyes glittered with something akin to amusement as he drank in the way she jutted her chin out, squared her shoulders, and tried to puff up her chest. It was, in the strangest way, endearing how she was still so clueless about what his true intent was.

He chuckled softly, delight only growing at how she shrank back at the sound before he trained a level stare on her, “I’m not going to kill you, Harri Potter.”

While the words should have brought her a sense of reassurance, the laughter that had accompanied it, the burning look in his eyes, did very little to render her relieved. In fact, her heart quickened at the possibilities of what else he was meaning to do first and her mind conjured up the image of the spider being tortured in Not-Moody’s class. Fingers clenched, the bite of her nails into her palm a welcomed distraction.

“What are you going to do then?” Harri hated how small her voice had come out, desperately wishing for some of the famed Gryffindor courage right about now. 

He raked his eyes slowly over her figure, hands behind him gripping the wooden desk’s edge, knuckles bleeding white from the exerted pressure. There had been multiple scenarios entertained in which he had dealt with her, each one a different outcome based on how she would react. And, as much as he would enjoy the path of least resistance, to spend entirety with his horcrux in a congenial mood, the girl’s track record tended to point to the opposite.

The answer was slow, deliberate, “That depends entirely on you, now doesn’t it?” 

* * *

* * *

Silence settled between them, neither content nor willing to break it. Harri could feel her heart rate finally slowing to a reasonable pace but her nerves were still strung, ready to snap at any moment. And while Voldemort was watching her in the usual predatory manner, there was a new darkness lighting up their depths, a different kind of hunger that she didn’t even want to begin to examine. The threat of his words hung heavily over her and she jumped at every move he made, no matter how slight. That expectation of seeing the yew wand and his admonishment of her for being so naive refused to abate. 

Then she noticed, over his shoulder, a door that hadn’t been in the dreams. Her mind was screaming to just get out of the study first and make a formal plan second--that the further she was from him, the better chance she might have. Counting slowly down from 3 in her head, the girl meandered about the room to nonchalantly positioned herself to an advantage. And then she bolted. 

Harri pushed over the side table in a blind attempt to slow Voldemort down, to perhaps give her enough time so that she could reach the door without him being none the wiser. A prayer was sent to an unknown god, wishing that he might trip over it, that it might surprise him enough into giving her a heads start. Without a wand, there was only so much she could do, and if it meant resorting to sly Muggle tactics to put space between herself and a Dark Lord? Well, she wasn’t exactly morally opposed. 

Unfortunately, it appeared that her luck had very much run out as an arm, once again, shot out to hook her around the waist. She had been so close, _so_ _close_ , to the door, her fingers outstretched to graze the cool metal surface of the knob when the breath was forced out of her lungs. Harri let loose a scream of frustration as another arm snaked across her chest, pulling her back against his solid form in a bruising manner.

“Really now, Harri,” false disappointment coloured his tone and he clicked his tongue in an attempt to make it believable.

In all actuality, however, he couldn’t have been more pleased than he was at this very moment. It would have been a pity, a letdown after all, if she hadn’t resisted at least somewhat. And, as he came to realise rather quickly during their past encounters, there was nothing more that he enjoyed than to push her to her limits, to see what she could do to shock him.

“Going so soon? Don’t you know how unbelievably rude it is to leave without even saying goodbye first?” 

She kicked at the air, fingers going up in vain attempts to pry his arms off of her, blunt nails doing little to inflict the amount of pain she so desperately wanted to. A vague notion that he was the cat and she was the mouse, that he was toying with his dinner before eating it, had taken root in her mind. It made her feel beyond ill.

“You bloody psycho, let me go!” she screamed.

He chuckled a bit at that, dark amusement swelling within his chest. How easy it would be for him to turn into the maniac she thought him to be, to show her the monstrous side that earned him the title of a Dark Lord, the one that made people so terrified that they dared not to even utter his name. It was certainly appealing enough, if not at least to force her into a more subdued state.

Voldemort whispered lowly, lips grazing her hair, “Should I show you then, Harri, how much of a ‘psycho’ I truly can be? Show you what I have all done to deserve being called a ‘Dark Lord’?”

A moan of pain slipped out as the arms across her chest tightened, the pressure on the charred and blistered skin inciting a sharp throb. The sheer agony of it was almost enough to make her start to cry, his soft laughter making her think he had done it on purpose. ‘This is it,’ her breath was coming in rapid short pulses, ‘he’s going to kill me.

Writhing against his binding grip, the girl was determined, at the very least, not to make it easy on him. Her mind was racing quickly, shuffling through idea after idea on how to escape, on how to live, that it was beginning to physically ache. The building stress, the mounting anxiety, finally caused the precarious wire she had been balancing on to snap, far too occupied with the full-blown horror that, no, this couldn’t be how it all ends. 

In a last-ditch attempt, Harri threw her elbow up and back forcefully, numbing pinpricks radiating through her arm as it connected with something solid, something warm. A revolting sound of wet cracking, a cry of surprised pain, and she was free. Scrambling from his hold, desperate to put distance between them, to run from the growing wrath that was, undoubtedly, awaiting her. The gleam of a golden globe, expensive and rather weighty looking, caught her eye and she darted over to the bookshelves, grasping it, hoisting it above her head, preparing to throw it at him.

Voldemort stumbled back at the sudden burst of sharp pain, a stinging ache that was rapidly spreading from his nose and outwards. It had shocked him into stillness, into silence, for a second as a hand slowly went up to inspect the damage her little stunt had reaped. Traces of the momentary relief at the fact she hadn’t broken his nose were quickly overshadowed. The hand pulled back to reveal bright spots of scarlet coating it, a tacky scarlet. A tidal wave of fury washed through him, the serpent coiled in his chest baring its fangs, demanding punishment, retribution, vengeance. He had, initially, planned to have a calm chat with her, reveal the truth about her nature, assure her that her place was at his side. But now? Now, all he wanted was to make her suffer, make her regret drawing his blood.

“You spiteful little menace,” he seethed, eyes as vivid as the blood streaming from down his face. He watched with a vindictive amount of pleasure at the way her face had paled when she took in the gore on his face, the way he could practically see the heart hammering, her hands trembling around the globe.

Voldemort pushed his magic squarely at the center of her sternum, the golden sphere dropping with a heavy thud as she was forcefully thrown backwards into the chaise lounge. Sadistic gratification filled him at the way she groaned, the way the wind had been expelled from her lungs, how her head had hit the wooden frame-- those green eyes glazed over, stunned and unfocused. It was a war of two truths right now in his mind-- one was singing for her to be disciplined harshly, to correct this kind of behaviour, to make her regret ever laying a finger on him. The other, however, was screaming for caution, for temperance, for patience, to avoid damaging something as precious as she was. It was a dilemma that irked him for the mere fact his own mind was advocating against his every instinct, every desire-- betraying him in favour of one girl.

The Dark Lord descended on her before she could even register what was happening. Half on the lounge, half on the ground, he wedged a knee between her legs to stop them from moving, one hand shooting out to grasp both of her wrists and pressing them harshly into the velvet fabric above her head. He noticed her chest rising rapidly, the swell of it visible even under the guise of her bulky black jumper, and he stared at it in morbid fascination. An unholy thought paced in his mind, as though it were a tiger being kept in a cage, demanding that he tear into her breast, break apart her ribs and find the shard of him that existed deep within. To expose her soul, lay it bare for him to dissect at his pleasure, to peruse every little thing that made her feel, function, _tick_. His fingers twitched around her wrists, constricting the barest amount as he tried to chase away the sinful idea. 

In a bid for distraction, his attention became engrossed by her thrashing against the chaise, the pitiful attempts to break free-- the way her spine arched to throw him off, her body rising to press against his for a brief second before sinking back down. ‘This is what happens to magical children,’ he thought distantly, her vehement protests to be let go barely registering, ‘when left to the tender mercies of the Muggle world. They become _feral_.’

He raised her wrists abruptly before slamming them back down into the plush fabric, drawing his face nearer to hers, the fuse of his tolerance already at its end.

“Even my patience has its limits, Harri. And right now? Well, you are wearing it dangerously thin,” he bit out, eyes glowing pinpoints of hellfire that bore into her own.

And then something ruby red dripped onto her cheek. ‘My blood,’ he mused in surprise, forgetting that he had been injured at all. She stilled as his free hand, idly and on its own volition, rose to her cheek. Morbid fascination filled him as his thumb swiped at the bloom, a man possessed by the sight. A foreign feeling, an aching gnawing want unfurled possessively in his chest as he watched the streak of scarlet stain the cream of her skin. It was corrupting, impure, sharply contrasted against the purity of the girl. His gaze refused to leave the mark, at the jarring, yet beautiful, image-- the earlier anger rushed out from him only to be replaced with something more dangerous. He had become painfully aware of the position they were in, her stretched underneath him and he holding her down.

“I believe,” he started slowly, pushing his magic into her body, urging it to follow his command, “it would be wise for you to get some rest, Harri.”

Her green eyes fluttered shut almost instantaneously, body relaxing and going limp under him. Releasing the hold on her wrists, absentminded fingers rubbed the blood on his thumb against the index, its residual warmth fading. And as he hovered over her, not quite content enough to back away, the Dark Lord found himself, yet again, debating the existence of his living horcrux.


	23. Nagini

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I meant to post this chapter last night but a storm knocked out my power! I'm so sorry to everyone who was expecting another update last night <3
> 
> Once again, you are all amazing and thank you for every kudos, bookmark and comment! It makes my day reading your reactions and thoughts on the story <3

* * *

* * *

She dreamt of smoke and fire, of flashes of green light and pained screams, of red eyes, possessive arms, and bright drops of blood. And as Harri finally opened her eyes, she could have sworn she smelt the lingering traces of brimstone, felt the residual heat of flames lick at her skin. It had filled her with trepidation, with a sense of impending doom that, somehow, Hell had been unleashed and she was stuck right in the middle circle of it all. 

A high vaulted ceiling with white elaborate crown molding materialised in view and Harri stared at it unblinking, trying to puzzle out when her dorm room in Gryffindor tower had been revamped. Her eyes traced over the intricate filigree impressed into the trim, deciding on the spot that it was quite ostentatious in its excessive detailing. Two thoughts had then occurred to her, as she tried to blink away the hazy fog of sleep, that made her stomach clench in a rather unpleasant way. For one, her body felt incredibly heavy, as though stones were placed on top of her, pushing her rather insistently down into the plush mattress. And the second was that she, most certainly, was not in her dorm room like she originally thought. Her bed at school was, begrudgingly, much less comfortable than the one she currently found herself in, while the drapes encircling her canopy were a brilliant shade of red, not black.

It all came rushing back to her in a brutal onslaught of a game of ‘catch up’. Hogwarts being invaded, Voldemort finding her, the struggle in the study, the sheer amount of blood spilling everywhere. ‘Oh sweet Merlin,’ she jolted to get up, to escape before he could divine her punishment, but was promptly yanked back by something digging into the delicate skin of her neck. Harri choked for second as it constricted her airways, coughing in greedy gulps of sweet oxygen as her eyes watered from the violence of the insistent pull. Searching fingers reached up blindly and immediately recoiled at the abrupt bite of cold metal. ‘A collar,’ her muddled thoughts were perplexed, surprised at its unexpected appearance on her skin. She skimmed along the band, stumbling upon a rather thick loop in the back that indicated the choker was connected to something. Suddenly, the mattress seemed far less comfortable than she had initially thought.

Craning her head as much as she could without dislocating it, her mouth dropped in mute horror. A silver metal leash, gleaming and thicky corded, was attached to a mount on the wall above the headboard. A shudder passed through her body, her mind trying to desperately stamp down the speculations of what it normally was used for, of what kind of person had chains over their bed. And then it hit her, an embarrassed rage blossoming fiercely in her chest. She was tied up, like a _dog_ , knowing that, without a shadow of doubt in her mind, _he_ had done it to get back at her.

Static filled the empty space of air, a crackling that danced along her skin, between her ribs, occupying every fibre in her body. He had chained her up, like some damned wild animal, because of what exactly? That she retaliated, fought for her life, hadn’t rolled over to a psychopath that had been attempting to murder her since her birth? Harri gave an embittered laugh at the thought, at how he was treating her like some misbehaved pet of his that needed to be disciplined. ‘And isn’t that just hilarious,’ she thought venomously as she yanked violently at the chains, praying for them to break, that they would rip the plaster off the pristine walls, that he would see the physical evidence of her wrath, ‘Considering he was the one who bit me first.’

As she sat there in frustrated silence, the backlog of emotions from the past few hours finally had time to process, to filter through their queue. A fierce realisation, one that made a frigid rage unfurl in her chest, one that gave her wrath a voice and conscious, made itself very well known. She was sick of it all, of the hypocrisy, of the betrayals, of the half-baked responses. Merlin only knew if anyone had ever given her a straight answer before in her life. Hell, even her own Aunt, her last living blood relative, had kept the truth about her true nature from her, about her parent’s death. And while Voldemort may have never outright lied to her, he certainly was content enough to keep her in the dark just as much as everyone else had. ‘You weren’t even told about the prophecy,’ a small voice reminded her, bringing about an entirely fresh new wave of rage. Electricity danced behind her eyes at the thought, at the little bomb that had been dropped on her out of the blue. Her entire life, she had stumbled through thinking it was her _parent’s_ _fault_ , that they had done something to enrage the Dark Lord, that Lily and James Potter somehow brought their fate upon themselves. It was easier to rationalise it that way then to think of it as just a random act, that it had been some terrible luck that befell them into attracting Voldemort’s attention. And then Dumbledore-

The lights overhead flickered once, twice, before plunging the room into darkness. An astringent taste coated her tongue, sparks at her fingertips, when she thought of the headmaster. Her skin suddenly felt stretched too tightly, the room in the air too charged, too cloying, too suffocating. He had _betrayed_ her, attempted to kill her for reasons she didn’t even understand, had the audacity to do so when her back was turned. Harri, distantly, knew she should feel grief, that she should feel some form of sorrow at the thought. The tears she had been waiting for, however, never came and she thought vehemently about claiming her vengeance the next time she saw him. The windowpanes began to rattle in their frames, her fingers clenching at the silk sheets as she gritted her teeth, her magic singing for revenge, for justice for-

_“Ah, you’re finally awake.”_

It felt as though cold water had been splashed over her, dousing the flames of her temper, and shocking her into stillness. The lights slowly flickered back to life as Harri noted, much to her rising alarm, that the covers at the end of the bed were shifting.

* * *

* * *

Tentatively, hesitantly, she lifted the edge of the blanket, heart dropping to her stomach at the sight of two golden eyes glittering up at her. Harri immediately dropped the duvet from her hands in silent horror as she scrambled to get her legs out from underneath, pulling them tightly to her chest and squeezing herself against the headboard. The undulating form of the snake moved closer until its triangular head peeked out from the blanket, forked tongue flicking at the air in a curious manner. A scream died in her throat as its tongue swiped across her calf, blood chilling in her veins and distress rapidly mounting when she realised that she was chained and unable to escape. Another gruesome idea quickly followed, crossing her mind that, perhaps, Voldemort intended to feed her to his pet alive, had made it easier on the massive serpent by limiting her movements. Harri’s vision dimmed, and she could have sworn that she was about to faint.

 _“I wasss worried. You had not ssstired for a while,”_ Nagini began coiling herself around the girl’s legs, relishing in the warmth of the heat emanating from the human’s body. The forked tongue scented the air and she recoiled at the palpable fear, the taste sour, tart. 

_“I won’t eat you, if that’s what you’re worried about,”_ she admonished, rearing up to half her height to look evenly into green eyes.

As she took in the shivering form of the girl in front of her, even Nagini found herself admitting that she was pretty enough, by human standards. Another flick of her tongue and disappointment filled her at the lack of acidity present-- she had yet to develop her venom it seemed. ‘ _A hatchling,’_ supplied a possessive thought, a fierceness that urged her to protect the girl. She coiled herself even tighter around the legs, refusing to let go.

Harri blinked once, then twice, trying to process the horror of the snake being so close to her, the chilled expanse of flexing muscles around her body. While she may have dreamt, every now and again, to be the snake, it was quite the surreal feeling when it draped itself across her, reminding herself that this was all too real. _“You--you won’t?”_

It was the first time, in all of her 16 years, that Harri had ever witnessed, what she supposed, at least, to be a snake’s laugh. Not that she had the chance to talk or interact with many. After her second year, she had made it a point to avoid any serpent bigger than herself, _especially_ the ones that possessed venom. But, nonetheless, it was a jarring sound, a series of stuttered sibilant sounds, the triangular head bobbing side to side eagerly.

_“No, little one, I will not. You are too preciousss to the Masster to even consssider it.”_

The snake moved to curl around Harri’s torso, flat head nudging and attempting to worm herself into the burnt hole in the sweater’s arm. She tasted the newly healed skin, the spot just a touch paler, a tad shinier, than the rest of the girl's complexion.

 _“He healed it nicely,”_ she mused, retreating once she realised her body wouldn’t be able to fit in the sweater’s sleeve.

Harri glanced down in confusion, for the first time since waking, registering that the burn wasn’t hurting, that she could no longer feel the sharp throb of it. Her eyes brow knitted together as she gingerly prodded the healed area, eyes going wide when there wasn’t even the slightest bit of residual pain left over. It puzzled her, why he had gone to the lengths to mend the wound, to do so in a manner that it wouldn’t leave a scar. 

She leaned forward in urgency, eyes glowing with a need for more information, enticed by the prospect that, perhaps, someone would finally be upfront with her. Distantly, she recalled the dark-haired witch’s horrified screams when her companion had hit her with a tail end of a spell, going on about how their Lord had ‘wanted her unharmed’. Harri had thought, back then, she only meant that he wished she was kept intact so he could do the job himself. However, hearing the snake’s confession rattled her, the sneaking suspicion that there was more to the story settling as a pit in her stomach.

A frown, tightness in the lines at the corners of her mouth, and she crept closer to the serpent, fear abandoned at the prospect of an answer that might, finally, reveal something of importance, _“Why? Why am I precious to him?”_

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* * *

He had appeared unnoticed, watching from the shadows as the girl chained to his bed began to casually converse with his dearest companion. Hearing her speak for the first time was a revelation, a holy and solemn occasion. Throughout the entirety of his life, Voldemort had never once heard another human speak the sacred language, this hissing of other snakes his only reference to how it may have sounded. But hearing her? Well, he suddenly could understand the reasoning behind Bellatrix’s starstruck face, the desire in her hooded eyes, whenever she overheard her Lord conversing with Nagini. It was an intoxicating sound, electrifying and rousing, that did little to quell the toxic possessiveness settling between his ribs. She was truly made from him, from the very marrow of his soul, from the shadow of his magic. He watched in fascination as her lips moved, the soft slippery sounds spilling forth with ease, the way her eyes lit up at Nagini’s slipup.

 _“That’s quite enough, Nagini,”_ he emerged from his observational spot in the darkness, evenly meeting her shocked stare at his sudden appearance.

From his periphery, he saw the snake slowly uncoil herself from the girl and retreat from the bed, felt the rippling of her muscles over his feet, distantly heard her warning hiss to be lenient. But all of it fell away as he drank in the sight of a girl with red hair and deathly green eyes.


	24. Are All Dark Lords Drama Queens?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand here's the second chapter from last night that should have been posted!
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Harri watched him cautiously, mind screaming for her to be on guard, to be careful. He looked rather calm, she noticed-- the greatest deception. Those crimson eyes were half-lidded, darkening with something she didn’t quite know how to comprehend-- fingers curled into the silken sheets to ward off her nerves. And though she would be loath to admit it aloud, she almost missed the snake-- the barest flickers of hope that it would come back any second now and provide a distraction. 

Silence fell between them and the girl took the time to fully observe the room. It was all quite monochromatic, to say the very least. Uniform, sterile-- a testament to its owner's rigid personality. The walls were simply white, just like the marble mantle above the fireplace. An accent of a fur rug was arranged in front of it-- ‘A fire hazard' -- and the flooring was made of slates of light grey wood. But apart from those few instances, everything else was the same shade of black. The four postered bed she was in, the sheets, the drapes, the desk in the corner. ‘Someone’s imaginative.' Emerald eyes passively darted about in an attempt to divert herself from his too assessing, too watchful stare. 

When Harri had finally seen fit to let her attention drift back to him, it was to belatedly discover that he had changed out of the severe duelling robes from earlier. Instead of the signature look she had come to associate Voldemort with, he was wearing a black and white three-piece suit. It hit her then that he was probably coming back from a council meeting or press conference. ‘And so he’s back to being ‘Marvolo Gaunt’,’ she thought snidely, still finding the entire pretense he was insistent on acting out ridiculous.

She watched in morbid fascination as he shrugged off the black tailored jacket, tossing it over the back of one of the armchairs-- at the way he had used the crook of his index finger to loosen the tie hanging about his throat. Harri blinked, trying her best not to be unnerved at how casual he was being-- at how _human_ he was managing to make himself look. But then again, hadn’t Tom Riddle always been excellent at playing pretend? As posing as one thing when he really was another? 

“Why the hell am I chained up? And whose bloody room is this anyway?” she had finally found her nerve, inching as close to the edge as the leash would allow.

He busied himself with shuffling through a stack of envelopes, trying not to dwell on how at home she looked in his bed-- how much she looked like she belonged there, surrounded by black silk. Admittedly, the contrast of it against her pale skin and richly coloured hair was a rather tempting sight. Distant warning bells cautioned him against even going there, that now wasn’t the time nor place to even entertain such ideas. But the memory of her speaking parseltongue, the way she had looked so enticing as her lips formed to produce the breathy hisses, came unbidden to his mind. His fingers tightened about the paper in his hands, the edges crinkling.

With eyes still resolutely trained downwards, he flipped an envelope over before commenting nonchalantly, “It’s mine, Harri.”

Then he raised his head, an eyebrow raised and voice holding an equally biting edge, “You are chained up because I couldn’t risk you wreaking havoc about the manor while I was working. You are _chained_ _up_ because you saw fit to attack _me_ like a feral little _beast_.”

Harri blinked once, then twice, mouth falling open as appalled rage made her forget her earlier caution.

“Attack _you_ ,” she gaped at him, echoing his words in an incredulous tone.

It truly was a ridiculous notion through and through. After all, between the two of them, who had been the one to invade Hogwarts? Fired the first spell in the graveyard? Attempted to kill her repeatedly in the past? In terms of who was attacking who, only one party truly seemed guilty on that account. She threw her hands up, exasperated that the man had even felt the need to tie up a wandless girl-- that he had the audacity to be upset over a single bloody nose when he had done so much worse to her.

“I _elbowed_ you. After, keep in mind, you _kidnapped me!”_ she protested, voice pitching in her upset, “That hardly warrants being tied up like a dog!”

The chandelier overhead had begun to sway precariously, fingers curling into the sheets in an attempt to keep her temper in check before it could make things worse. He hadn’t even seemed to notice, nor apparently care, that her magic was lashing out. And Harri did distantly wonder where this sudden courage was coming from, the vaguest idea forming that it was because he didn’t look so much like a Dark Lord at this very moment. Without the severe robes and bloodthirsty violence in his gaze, Voldemort truly appeared the part of a harmless, charismatic businessman. And her mind was screaming for her to remember who she was truly talking to, what he was capable of-- to have even a shred of self-preservation.

“Untie me,” she demanded, trying to keep her tone level and reign in the crackling energy swirling about her.

He scoffed in response, striving to ignore the fact that she did have some validity in her reasoning. Perhaps he had overreacted initially. But truly, he had been fully prepared to let her go free once she woke up-- but now? As her magic became more agitated, like a child’s during a tantrum, he was more than content to let her cool off before feeling inclined to do so.

“Not until you calm down.”

“Untie. Me,” Harri gritted out between clenched teeth.

She was aware of her temper spiking, the belittling disregard in his voice striking a nerve-- that he was purposefully turning his back on her. It reminded her too much of the way Dumbledore had always done so-- how the headmaster had always refused to listen to her, acknowledge her whenever her emotions would bleedthrough. And telling someone who is upset to 'calm down' was a sure way to only add more dry kindling to the flame. 

“No. Not until you calm down,” he repeated once more, tone firm as he scanned the wax seal of the letter in his hand.

A sudden gust of wind shot through the room, an uncontrollable force, that blew those damned letters from the table. They scattered haphazardly about the floor. The sight reminded her of the Dursley’s living room after the neverending onslaught of Hogwarts letters had arrived, spewing from the chimney and carpeting the house in inches of crisp envelopes. A sea of white. Her shoulders had begun to shake, eyes alight as her magic itched to be released further-- to finally bring about the chaos she so desperately wished for. To make him listen and give in to her demands-- she figured that he, at the very least, owed her that considering what she had been put through in the past day alone. 

“Kindly piss off then.”

His patience finally snapped as the organised stack had been interspersed about the floor. Voldemort forcefully threw the remaining letters in his hand down onto the side table, turning his irritation on her as he stalked towards the bed. Leaning over it, his hand shot out to clasp around her ankle before, roughly, yanking her down and closer to him. The Dark Lord hovered over her, a sneer on his face.

“Have you had enough of your childish antics, Harri?” his eyes glinted with a dark promise, voice calm but encouraging her to think before she gave him her answer, “Are you finally done and ready to behave civilly this time? Or do I still need chains to hold you?”

She swallowed at his threat, and looked up at him, pressing herself deeper into the mattress. His eyes had begun to swirl with a blackness and the crackle of his magic danced over her skin in an ever-present warning, attempting to assert its dominance. A stinging retort was on the tip of her tongue, wanting so desperately to demand who had been the childish one-- who had been the one to throw a tantrum in the first place when he hadn't gotten his way. The rational side to her, however, was raising its own warning flags, pleading with her to shut up. Instead of scathing words, she willed her magic out and it rose to meet his, a subtle warning for him to give her some space. 

“No,” she bit out, not daring to say more but also not quite daring to stay silent.

The Dark Lord stilled for a moment as he sensed the press against his magic, the electricity of her anger-- the way it had felt so familiar, yet so unfamiliar, to his own. He was, vaguely, reminded of a spitting stray cat, the kind that lashed out with its claws at those who dared to approach it. Sending her an indulgent smile, as though immensely pleased by her answer, he released his vice-like hold on her ankle.

“No,” he agreed lightly, good-naturedly, “I do not.”

The chains on her throat melted away, releasing its bindings around her thin neck and setting her free. The Dark Lord crossed the room to settle in the armchair by the fireplace, the letters still flung wildly about the floor. With a flourish of his wand, a tea set had materialised on the table between the two chairs, steam curling out from the pot invitingly. Voldemort leaned back, fingers steepled, and gestured for her to take the unoccupied one at his side.

An all too sharp smile spread on his face, crimson eyes dancing with an eagerness that made Harri grind her teeth.

“Come, sit. We have so many things to discuss.” 


	25. Tea With The Dark Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! First off, thank you for the recent feedback everyone has given me! I really appreciate it and love hearing that you guys are enjoying yourselves! Also thank you for the honesty about the chapter length and the reassurance that you guys are fine with longer ones if need be <3
> 
> This chapter was weirdly hard for me to write and I ended up scrapping entire sections several times before I was content enough to post it lol. That being said, I hope it doesn't disappoint you guys and will have the follow-up chapter posted asap! 
> 
> As always, you are all lovely and I feel so lucky to have you guys as my readers <3 Thank you and enjoy!

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Harri stared at the steaming cup of jasmine placed in front of her, eyebrows raising in surprise, in astonishment, at the simple gesture. Though debating about initially refusing it, she hesitantly took the proffered cup anyways before sitting down, eyeing it suspiciously as though it may have contained poison. And knowing who had conjured it, it was entirely within the realm of possibility.

“We’re having….tea,” she questioned in puzzlement, unable to believe that the most feared and powerful man in Britain was at her side, drinking _tea_ of all things.

It was disconcerting, jarring to behold. Voldemort should be drinking the blood of his enemies from their skulls, or at the very least wine from a chalice, _not_ jasmine from a rather expensive looking fine china set. She focused her attention on the ripples spreading concentrically on the liquid’s golden surface, trying to digest the fact.

“Harri, we are British. It’s in our very nature to have tea during difficult conversations,” he mused, tone incredulous as he placed the rim to his lips, eyeing her hesitance to do the same.

He returned the cup to its saucer, taking a moment to turn his gaze to her profile and admiring the product her lineage had sown. Her heart-shaped face, the gently defined jawline, the slightly upturned point of her nose. He pondered over the features for a moment, trying to figure out who they vaguely reminded him of, when, suddenly, a dark-haired witch with hooded eyes came to mind. ‘Interesting,’ the Dark Lord filed away the comparison for a later time, making a mental note to investigate a connection between her and the Black line. Voldemort willed for the fire to flicker to life in the empty mantle, feeling her unease on the very edges of their bond.

“I have a proposition for you,” he started slowly, trying to draw her attention away from the cup and back to him, “You can ask a question, I will answer. Then you will comply and answer one of mine in return, an equal exchange.”

She set her cup down rather noisily on the side table, irritation flaring at the fact he was still demanding more from her. ‘Calm yourself,’ her conscience warned, arguing it was a fair enough trade, harmless really.

Harri leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, “Fine. Let’s start with the prophecy, shall we? You never told me about it. Why?”

He winced at the noise, at the fact that she had the audacity to all but throw the fine china down onto the table. ‘She really is a feral, uncivilised thing,’ he thought scathingly, trying to discern whether or not she had chipped it and resisting the urge to take it away from her. Appearing to still be in one piece, he sighed before training an impassive look on her, disappointed that she had chosen to start there. Then again, he supposed it made sense why she would, all things considered. It was the reason for their story, the origin point in their still unfolding tale.

The Dark Lord eyed her, voice blasé, “You never asked me about it.”

Anger started to rise in her, a bitterness in the back of her throat and a burning behind her eyes at his lack of an answer. ‘Of bloody course he would do this,’ her fingers dug into the softness of her upper arms, the flames in the mantle suddenly heightening in response to her growing frustration. “

No,” she bit out, her tone disbelieving that he still had the gall to try to deceive her, “None of this half-baked, cryptic bullshit. I want answers, _real_ answers” 

Voldemort narrowed his eyes at her cursing, his earlier assumption of her being uncivilised, uncouth, being confirmed once again, “Alright, Harri, fine. I never chose to _enlighten_ you about some drivel spouted by an unstable, half-witted seer because it no longer matters. Nor is it still applicable to our current situation, in fact. I felt that you shouldn’t concern yourself with it seeing as it has become obsolete.”

She gaped at him, eyes widening at his admittance, his guilt, of withholding it from her.

“No lon- Of course it matters!” she choked out, relieved to have had the foresight to put her cup down as the temptation to throw it at his head was almost overwhelming, “It’s the entire reason for everything! Why you killed my parents, attempted to kill _me_ , why I was cursed to be ‘The Girl Who Lived’! Funny that you think this “drivel” isn’t important anymore considering, up until a few months ago, you still seemed pretty sure of it.” 

He levelled her with a stare, jaw ticking in annoyance at her mention of his past actions. He admitted that he hadn’t been the most rational but he also suffered from having a soul split far too many times. It hadn’t been his initial plan, after all, to have his soul interspersed between 8 containers, with himself included, and it had done some dreadful things to his state of mind. Voldemort sighed and gingerly massaged his temples, already foreseeing what a headache this was going to be.

“The rather tricky thing about prophecies is that there can be countless interpretations as to what they refer to. It isn’t so easy to pinpoint down their exact meaning and can be rather _slippery_ to deal with.” 

She groaned at his explanation, noting, much to her dismay, that he was still avoiding the question. Harri slumped further down into her chair, not missing how his left eye had given a minute twitch at her bad posture. A vindictive thought crossed her mind that, good, let him be uncomfortable, let him be vexed and let her get under his skin. It was only fair after the year she had because of him, with his constant disruption of her dreams, his thoughts a very much so unwanted commentary.

“You’re still avoiding the question,” she accused, tone pointed and coloured brightly with annoyance. It was starting to become crystal clear as to why he made such a competent politician, his ability to evade giving a straight answer making her want to grind her teeth to dust, “ _Why_ doesn’t it matter anymore?” 

Eagerness filled him. A hunger demanding to be sated bloomed in his chest as he leaned closer to her, the radiance shining brightly in his eyes betraying his excitement, “What do you remember of our bet, Harri?”

Whereas he was eager and excited, she was wary and anxious. A Dark Lord with that kind of expression, in her past experience, only proved to be trouble, to be more than a slight inconvenience, for all else involved. Usually, as she had come to learn the hard way, it meant someone either wound up dead, tortured, or both. She eyed him suspiciously, voice slow, hesitant, mind racing to figure out where he was going with this turn of conversation.

“That if I could tell you what a horcrux is, you would give me anything I want.” 

The uncharacteristic urge to groan in exasperation was mounting in him, his impatience making his mind pace as though it were caged.

“And so?” he prompted her, motioning with an open hand for her to hurry up, entirely too keen to get to the heart of their true conversation, the reason why they were here.

Harri straightened her spine, arms unfolding to drum her fingers against her thighs, trying vainly to recall Dumbledore’s words from the tower. She swallowed stubbornly around the lump clawing its way up her throat at the memory of seeing the normally kind headmaster’s eyes turn to flint, the way he had reprimanded her for looking into it, the way he seemed so horrified at the prospect. It wasn’t time to unpack that emotional baggage. Not yet, not while she was finally getting some information that could shine a light on her existence, on her relationship with Voldemort. She pushed it as far down as she could.

“It’s a container you place your soul in for safekeeping. It will keep you earthbound, should you die, making you essentially immortal,” she trailed off, eyebrows lowering in contemplation as she tried to recall any other important tidbits, feeling that she was missing something crucial. 

Voldemort’s fingers dug into the plush arms of the chair, knuckles bleeding white from the pressure. She was missing a rather central detail to their creation, one that he was dying to hear her say aloud, “And how does one, exactly, create a horcrux, Harri?”

She had wanted her voice to have a bite, to accuse him of making her look into something so vile, to flaunt that she knew what he had done or was about to. She wanted to gloat that she knew of his immoral plans, was finally one step ahead of him, to shock him that she wasn’t the naive girl he thought her to be. But, instead, her voice had come out timid, small sounding, unsure and phrasing her answer as though it were a question and not a definitive response.

“Murder committed with intent?”

Triumph spread through his chest, warm and content that she had not only followed his instructions but that she managed to prove herself more resourceful than he had expected, that she had found for him an answer. After all, it was no easy feat. Dumbledore would have seen to it that all texts mentioning a horcrux, even the very slightest of a trace, would have been removed, disintegrated, wiped away from the library after his rise. Voldemort shot a hand out to grasp lightly at her chin, tilting her head up towards him. Pleasure coursed through his veins, a heady feeling of approval, at the electrifying sparks that stemmed from their contact. And judging from the way her pupils had subtly blown wide, the way her lips had parted just so slightly, she was feeling it too.

His voice came out as a purr, a vibration in his chest, as he stared down at the stunned girl in his grasp, “Aren’t you just a clever girl? Well done, Harri, well done indeed.”

Harri blinked, trying not to feel the warmth, the satisfaction, the bubbling sensation in her chest, at hearing his praise, at the featherlight touch. A small part of her admonished herself for even wanting his approval, for even feeling relieved she had managed to gain it. But another part of her relished in it, basking in it as though one would in the sun. A picture of herself and Draco sitting by the lake, surrounded by autumn leaves, came to mind, his grim admittance and startling words used to describe Voldemort’s presence-- _‘..you can’t help but want to please him, to get his approval.’_ She swallowed, not missing the way those crimson eyes tracked the movement, and she shuddered as it dawned on her how just right the Slytherin had been.

He released his hold on her, retreating back into the plushness of his chair. The residual warmth, the pleasant prickling, was a phantom sensation lighting up the nerves in his hand where he had touched her. The Dark Lord greedily drank in the glow on her face, the conflict in her eyes when she realised she had enjoyed his touch, had desired his praise.

“I am a man of my word. Name it and it shall be yours.” 

He would be lying if he said the thought, the anticipation, of what she would demand from him hadn’t kept him awake at night. This was his chance to finally see the core desires of Harri Potter, to see her priorities, to reveal some fundamental truth about herself. It left him ravenous. Her mind was a whirl, her conflicts of interest broadcasting themselves to him loudly, chaotically, as though they were his own.

Harri fell back into the chair, dazed and in a stupor. Her mind was still reeling from the radiant light that was rushing through her veins, a side effect leftover from his skin against hers. And now she had to decide what she wanted from him? Several ideas came at once as the floodgates were opened, clamouring for her attention and to be the dominant thought. She considered, briefly, of demanding he return her to Hogwarts and never touch her again. However, considering his obsession with her, and his apparent need to make a reappearance every single school year thus far, she knew he would never grant it. And if a small part of her recoiled at the idea of him never touching her again, at being disappointed by the concept of being cut off from that newly-discovered buoyancy? Well, she, too, repressed that deep, deep, within herself to be pondered over another time. 

‘It can’t be too big of a request,’ she mused, biting at her lower lip in contemplation. If she bid for something too large, too complex, she was sure he would be less likely to grant it, the stingy bastard he was. An image of a wand came to her mind, one that would actually listen to her, and she firmly nodded at the prospect. 

“I want--” she trailed off. 

Images of Hermione being dragged from the train, eyes rimmed red and heartbreaking at not understanding why, materialised in her conscience. Snape defending her against Dumbledore, pushing her down the stairs and urging her to flee before the Dark Lord could arrive. Draco, terrified and pale in the face, shooting off sparks and drawing attention away from her at his own risk. Her heart sank at the thought of what might happen to them, of what fate would await them should they be found out. But right now? Right now, she had a chance to do some good, even if it meant sacrificing a tad more of herself once again. The wand could be damned. Harri squared her shoulders, jutting her chin out bravely as she stared into fervid scarlet eyes, her tone adamant and brimming with passion.

“I want for you to leave my friends alone. Swear to me that you won’t touch them, that no harm will come to them and that they will continue to live.”

Voldemort blinked at her, not entirely too sure why her answer had surprised him. It had been quite characteristic of her, to selflessly use the opportunity, one in which she could have received anything she wanted from him within reason, for purposes that wouldn’t even directly benefit her. He threw his head back in a deeply amused laugh, gleaming teeth catching the light, absolutely astonished at the extent to which her saviour complex ran. She truly was a Gryffindor in her nature, at her core.

“As you wish. You have my word that no one you truly care for will be harmed by my hand.”

Harri stared at him, his wording putting her on edge, and was nervously awaiting the settling sensation of an Unbreakable Vow to appear. It never did. She frowned when she realised he had no intention of even making it in the first place, of solidifying his promise in magic. Her fingers dug into the softness of her thighs as she tried to fight off the overwhelming urge to yell at him, to call him a liar, to demand that he show her that she could trust him. But then again, he had just granted her a boon, one that he would probably rescind just as quickly if she accused him of being untrustworthy. Harri let out a shaky breath, trying to quell the hissing side to her that would only make things worse, attempting to satisfy herself with just having to take his word at face value. It was more difficult than she thought. 

“Tell me, Harri,” she snapped her attention back to the Dark Lord, stomach clenching at the way his eyes were shining, “Have you ever wondered as to why the bond between us is so visceral at times? How you, a witch with zero training as a legilimens, can slip into my mindscape with ease when even the most accomplished wizards are unable to do so? Or, perhaps, why you are sometimes so painfully aware of my emotional state, as I am with yours?”

She blinked at him owlishly, trying to understand where he was possibly going with this particular thread of conversation. Raising the cup to her lips, suddenly feeling far too parched, too thirsty, she took a pensive sip of the still-warm tea. Of course, she had wondered about every item he had just pointed out, sometimes even staying awake into the hours before dawn in contemplation. But she had always just assumed that this was the way things were, that it was a side effect of the curse in her scar.

Her brows knitted together as she tentatively responded, “Because of your rebounded curse?”

Voldemort let out a breathy, indulgent laugh, a cutting smile frozen on his face as he shook his head in disbelief at her naivety, at the endearing way she still hadn’t piece it all together. He leaned forward, closer to her, hands on his knees propping himself up, gaze fixed intently on her. They flitted across her face, determined to commit every reaction, every tell, to memory.

“That might explain some of it, naturally. But of course, not everyone who bears a curse mark will be bonded to the caster as you and I are. And it certainly wouldn’t explain some of your other, _more unusual_ , abilities,” he said.

His eyes shone with amusement, smile widening at the way she stared at him in doelike confusion, the way he could practically hear her heart quickening, the way she had begun to fidget in her seat, “Have you never truly found it odd, Harri, that you can speak parseltongue? You, a descendant from the Potter line, a family with no relation whatsoever to Salazar Slytherin, had just so happened to manifest an inherited ability? That it was all a mere coincidence?”

The world around her had begun to slow to an excruciating pace, his words distant and obscured by the pounding in her ears. She felt oddly cold, as though she were hovering outside of her body, her mind screaming in warning against _something_. Harri couldn’t remove her eyes from his plush mouth, from his too sharp canines, from the left corner being tugged higher into a self-satisfied smirk. She even watched, in distant horror, as his mouth formed the next words, her heart stilling for a beat and body going rigid.

“It’s all because you, yourself, are a _horcrux_ ,” he stated, allowing a weighty silence to settle between them. 

The fireplace in the mantle extinguished, plunging the room into shadow and eliminating the priorly pleasant warmth in the room. Her hands weren’t working, too frozen in place, curled inwards with shock, and she was unable to stop the cup from slipping from her grasp. It shattered on the floor, the white rug beneath their feet staining golden from the spilled tea. Harri felt nauseous, beyond ill, like she was about to throw up, as she tried to understand what he meant, what it could possibly entail that _she_ was a _horcrux_. And she wondered, briefly, if she really was about to be sick, her stomach clenching in an unpleasant way and throat burning with acid. Her vision dimmed as a coldness gripped greedily at her conscience, Voldemort’s smug face blurring away as darkness overcame her.


	26. At The Eye Of The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday everyone!! I'm so excited it's the weekend so here's an update a tad earlier than usual <3 This chapter so much fun to write and I hope you guys all enjoy it! 
> 
> As always, thank you so much your comments and kudos! You are all amazing readers and I appreciate you all so very much! <3

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* * *

When she awoke, it was with an acidity in her mouth and a pounding in her head, her heart heavy and beating in the pit of her stomach. The crown molding, with all of its dainty filigree, materialised back into view and she stared up at it, mortified that she had _fainted_ of all things. Then she remembered why she had in the first place, what had prompted her to lose consciousness. Harri was overcome with deja vu as she jolted up from the bed, half-expecting to be yanked brutally back down like the first time she had done so, to be restrained with nowhere to go. No amount of little relief flooded her when she wasn’t, however, her hands hesitantly going up to explore her collarless neck. 

The Dark Lord was perched on the edge of the bed and Harri stared up at him owlishly, desperately trying to chalk up what he had revealed to her as part of her overactive imagination, that she had misheard him when he had proclaimed her to be a horcrux. Her mouth fell open and then promptly closed, still too dumbstruck to actually move, to speak, to function. Suddenly, it all made sense; why he wasn’t attempting to kill her, Nagini’s assessment that she felt familiar in the graveyard, dreaming through the snake’s eyes, feeling the endless loop of his emotions. And then the voice inside of her, the one that had fought off the Imperious, the one that had encouraged her anger, stoked the flames of her wrath, in Dumbledore’s office. Harri clutched at her head, bile rising in the back of her throat as it clicked into place. It was the _horcrux_ in her, it had been the shard of Voldemort’s soul lodged somewhere deep within her. Her breaths suddenly seemed too short, too rapid, not quite enough. ‘Oh sweet Merlin,’ she squeezed her eyes shut as the pounding in her head increased, at the too loud pulse in her ears.

Voldemort watched her critically, afraid to approach or to say anything should it trigger another unpleasant reaction. Admittedly, it hadn’t been the one he was expecting from her, hadn’t been in his master plan to levitate an unconscious girl back onto his bed and to wait around until she recovered enough to speak. But, as per usual, Harri Potter had put another wrench in his plans, had found a way to do the one thing he hadn’t accounted for. He watched the way she was gulping in air, the way she had hidden her head in her hands, the way she was trying, struggling, to process. He almost felt strangely sympathetic towards her, having felt a vaguely similar way when he had divined her true nature for himself. Though, of course, his reaction had been less of fainting and more of wrath. Even now, he could still picture the destroyed graveyard, the statue on his father’s tombstone decapitated, the trees cleaved cleanly down the middle to reveal their pliable, splintered cores. He had caused it to storm that night, for lightning to split the sky and for the wind to howl, in an attempt to have Mother Nature match his chaos, feel his fury. In a way, he was grateful she was just overwhelmed emotionally, if not just for the sake of his bedroom staying intact. Voldemort watched her slowly raise her head, unable to stop the frown from etching its way onto his features at the dazed stupor still misting over her eyes.

“You fainted,” he stated slowly, carefully, not wanting to further alarm her but also not wanting her to lapse back into her mindscape.

Harri massaged her temples in vaguely soothing circles, emotions warring and cycling through far too quickly for her tastes. She was panicked, horrified, stunned, disgusted, vengeful, and angry all at once. It made her stomach tighten painfully.

“Yes,” she snapped sarcastically, the fearful caution, the one that usually advised her to deal with him in a calm, collected manner, evaporating in the wake of the tempestuous gale of her feelings, “I am well aware that I fainted, thank you.”

His jaw ticked at her biting tone, at the clip in her voice, at her impudence to speak to him in such a way. His back teeth clenched down with enough force that he was sure they would crack, trying to remind himself to exercise patience, to attempt to understand what she was feeling, to not lash out and worsen the situation. And how he hated that feeling. He was Lord Voldemort, the darkest wizard known in their history, feared and adored by his followers and enemies, a man accomplishing great things. Yet here he was, catering to the meltdown of a teenage girl. A small voice tried to justify her reaction, to argue that it was deserved as she just learnt she was housing her parents murder’s horcrux, that her soul hadn’t been her own since she was a little over a year old. It was largely ignored, however. 

Her head suddenly shot up at an alarming speed, desperate hope reflected clearly in those round green eyes. She untangled herself from his sheets, scrambling on the bed towards him, hand lashing out to grip his forearm in a vice-like grip. Harri, as much as she hated to admit it, had seen him do near-impossible feats, accomplish things with his magic that she could never dream of. Perhaps he could, once again, do something incredible, something godlike.

“Take it out,” she pleaded with him, brows drawn together in despair, in distress. 

He glanced down at the hold on his arm, at the way her small hand hadn’t even been able to fully encircle it, how its fingers were trembling. A stray thought occurred to him that this was, probably, the first time she had ever initiated contact first, that her first instinct when she was distressed was to clutch at him. A feeling of immense satisfaction flooded him at the thought, his ego inflating at the proof that she wanted, needed, physical contact as much as he did. 

“Harri,” he said deliberately, trailing off in uncertainty, not willing to admit extracting his horcrux was beyond his capabilities.

After all, she was the first human one he had come across, his countless hours of research yielding nothing that would point to another in existence. Even if he could take it out, it would most likely damage the piece, not to mention her own soul, or perhaps something worse.

“Come on! I’ve seen you do the impossible before. And what did you say to me in the woods? You do things lesser men can’t. So please,” she didn’t even care that she was begging him, admitting his magical prowess, acknowledging his greatness.

All she could think about was his soul, vile and dark and wretched, inside of her, feeding off of her like a parasite. The very soul that murdered countless people, that had done unspeakable things to strangers and those she cared about alike, the one that had killed her parents. She just wanted it gone, erased, eradicated. It was appalling, terrifying really, that not only could he physically hold her, keep her locked away forever, but now? Now, he was also inside of her, corrupting her from within, laying claim to her soul and mind. Her grip on his arm tightened, her fingers finding purchase in the corded muscle underneath the crisp material of his collared shirt.

“Please! Remove it.” 

He watched her plead with him, the way her eyes shone wetly, her lips parted, her shoulders quivering, how she was looking to him as though he were her only hope, her only lifeline. A sick fascination, a perverse and twisted thing, rose to the surface and he realised he rather liked her begging. And hearing her admit aloud his potential, his mastery over magic? It did very little to help tame the toxic desire, to quell the immoral thoughts currently circling in his mind. ‘If only she could always be this compliant.’ 

Voldemort straightened his spine further to tower over her, levelling her with a look that spoke of having no room for debate, “No, Harri.”

It took a second for his words to register, for her to understand that he was denying her, admonishing her as though she were a child asking for another toy. She withdrew her hand from his arm as though it had been burnt, eyes glowing in resentment and voice full of vitriol. 

“Take. It. Out,” she demanded through clenched teeth, unable to believe his nerve, his refusal, that he was, undoubtedly, finding some sick delight in her desperation.

Harri could have sworn, at the moment, she could feel it inside of her, slipping between the empty spaces of her ribs, filling her lungs, beating in time with her own heart. The notion it was festering inside of her only increased her alarm, “I don’t want your vile soul in me!”

The doors in the room slammed shut on their own accord, the shadows in the corners beginning to climb up the walls, eagerly consuming all in its path. Voldemort’s magic permeated the air heavily, a suffocating static charge that caused the lights overhead to start to dangerously hiss in a threat to burst free from their glass cages. His eyes flashed at her insult, his lips drawn back into a sneer. She dared to call him vile, to act like she had a revolting parasite inside of her instead of his soul, to act as though he were some nauseating growth that she could just cut from her. 

“Do you know, Harri, how many would consider it an honour to house my _‘vile soul’'_? How many would kill to be in your place, to be of such value to me? You should be grateful for the opportunity,” he seethed, voice low, a deadly sort of calm that spoke volumes to his mounting irritation. 

“Well good,” her own voice was rising in volume, a sharp contrast to his quiet. In her angered hysteria, she hadn’t even noticed the magic pouring out from him, her attention only drawn to it when it began to cling to her like a second skin, “Then you have plenty of people you can give it to. If it's such an _‘honour’_ , one of your followers will gladly take it!” 

As she took in his pinched expression, the tightness in the corners of his mouth, the silence that followed, Harri had come to a rather startling conclusion. It was enough to make her heart drop to her stomach, her mouth falling open in a surprised gape.

“Oh bloody hell. You can’t, can you? Remove it, I mean,” 

“No. I can’t,” his voice was tight, a grimace racking his shoulders at the admittance.

His hands were buried, clenched into the duvet’s covers, a bloodless white from the pressure and straining from the physical effort it took to verbally acknowledge he was just as clueless as she was.

Harri hated how her first thought was that if he didn’t know how to fix it then she was absolutely screwed. She tried to process the fact that she was stuck with his soul inside of her, that she was saddled to house part of him for however long she lived, that she was irrevocably, undeniably, tied to him. Her stomach gave another unpleasant squeeze, uncontrollable chills running through her body as two dawning realisations abruptly came to her. The first was that the horcrux inside of her had come from the night of her parents’ murder. Harri was playing host to a sliver of the soul that had witnessed their murder which meant-- the memories she had from that night, those clear, vivid details of her mother standing in front of her crib with arms thrown wide, begging for her child’s life to be spared, the brilliant flash of green that followed. They were all the _horcrux’s_ recollection of the night. It made perfect sense, after all. No 15-month-old child should have been able to remember that much, especially not that clearly, no matter how traumatic it may have been.

The second was that the entire purpose of splitting one’s soul was to remain immortal, that the existence of a horcrux was to keep their masters earthbound. ‘He kept coming back because of me,’ she thought, feeling ill at the thought, acidity back in her mouth. And who knew how many else he had created, apart from her, how many objects were out in the world that were tying him to the earthly plane. He truly was invincible, undefeatable, a monster made from the void that could keep coming back no matter what. And if a horcrux kept its master from death’s clutches then that must mean they were, to some degree, immortal themselves. 

Harri fixed her alarmed stare on the Dark Lord, finally fully comprehending what he had done, what perverse act of nature he had dragged her into. Suddenly, it made sense as to why Dumbledore had attempted to kill her, the logical explanation only being that the headmaster was aware of her condition. He _knew_ and never told her. The violent anger was back, gnashing its teeth and singing for blood, a vindictive, vengeful side that wanted to scream, to demand how he could be so selfish, to tear him limb from limb. She wasn’t entirely sure if the anger was more directed at Dumbledore, at Voldemort, or equally at both. 

Instead, she settled for scathing words, cruelly targeting his weakness, the embarrassment he felt from finally being out of his depth.

“It looks like even the ‘Mighty Lord Voldemort’ has limits to his usefulness,’ she sneered, lip curling in spite as her fingers twitched to lash out in physical violence.

He stilled, a vacuum of space fabricating into existence, an eerie quiet that warned her to be careful, to choose her next words wisely. His magic lashed out to constrict around her frame, the voice advising for gentleness, for understanding, now silenced and overshadowed by an urge to discipline her, to make her remember her place.

“Careful, Harri,” he warned, fixing her in a cold gaze, eyes narrowing just a fraction, “Or would you like to see where the extent of my limits truly lie?” 

Perhaps she had finally lost it, perhaps Harri Potter had finally gone off the deep end but, as she met his gaze, she had come to the unsettling conclusion that she didn’t care at this moment. His threats sounded empty, anything he could possibly do to her now paled in comparison to what he had already done, how he had already ruined her, brought her down to his level of corruption. He had marked them both as foul creatures, adulterated them against humanity, against nature’s wishes. And now? Now all she wanted was retribution. 

Bitter spite, a venom spreading through her body, urged her onwards, armed with the knowledge that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, kill her. She just wanted him to hurt like she did, to feel even an ounce of her vengeful mood, to make him regret everything he had done. And much like Voldemort, the little voice that begged her to be careful, to not to give in to her temper, had also been silenced.

“How fucking ironic is it,” she started, voice slipping into parseltongue, her tongue losing its ability to speak English in the heat of her rage, _“that the ‘Darkest Lord of Our Time’ now has to rely on a 16-year-old girl to stay alive? It’s beyond pathetic.”_

He descended on her, launching himself across the bed to grab her by the throat and pin her to the mattress. His crimson eyes were glowing in passionate anger, in heat, his canines elongated in his blind fury. She dared to call him pathetic, to mock him, without even realising he had done something beyond great in her creation, something that would make lesser men tremble before him. He caged her body between his legs as he hovered over her, fingers constricting around her throat as he brought his face closer to hers.

“I warned you to be careful, Harri,” he whispered lowly, voice singing of the promise of the violence to come, of the war she had incited. 

Voldemort moved one hand from her throat to press, with a bruising force, at the spot where her heart continued to beat. It was pounding erratically under his hand, whether from fear or anger, or a mix of both, he was not sure. He relished, however, at the soft moan that escaped her when his hand squeezed tighter around her throat, cutting off her oxygen and making her go still under him.

“I do need you alive, that much is true, but I do not need you to be cognizant for that to happen. All I require is for your pretty little heart to continue to beat,” he pressed down just a touch harder on her chest to make his point, “For you to breathe. Everything else you continue to do is at my mercy.”

He released his hold on her, eyeing her for a moment as she tried to sit up to cough, his body poised above her preventing her from doing so. He watched fear swirl with residual anger in her green eyes, the way she looked as though she still wanted nothing more than to sink her teeth into his flesh, to shred apart his skin with her nails. Voldemort recognised that anger for it was his own, the writhing kind that turned him so easily into a monster, that earned him his feared reputation. His eyes flitted briefly to the lightning scar. It seemed that his little horcrux had inherited that as well from him and, despite the situation, despite the violence that had just occurred, he found it oddly endearing. 

He removed himself from atop her, eyes glinting as he stared down at her in assessment. The little voice was back, screaming at the top of its lungs to take a step back, to let himself, and her, cool down. “

Take the rest of the night to calm yourself,” his voice was even despite his magic singing for her submission, to make her understand that _she_ had come from _him_ , that she was from his marrow and therefore owed him allegiance. The whisper of his conscience loudened at the thought, demanding for him to leave now before he could do anything he might regret later.

“I will come back once you have had the chance to do so.”

He disapparated from the room, leaving her on the bed to rub at her sore throat and lick her wounds. Harrie stared at the spot he had just been, feeling the phantom hand still at her throat, on her breastbone above her heart, the residual heat on him hovering over her. 

A scream of frustration, grabbing a pillow from the bed and hurling it at the door. It fell with a soft thud on the ground, her fingers itching to grab something harder, to wreak havoc, to make something feel her pain, her anger, her desperation. And so she did. 

She leapt from the bed in rage, eyes casting wildly about the room to find something to destroy, to mutilate. Harri grabbed the god forsaken tea set and threw it against the wall with all of the force she could, the shatter it produced a satisfying sound that fuelled her onwards, encouraging to sow even further damage. Her magic, wild and unrestrained, its gaping maw full of gnashing teeth, bounced about the room. It was an unbridled typhoon and she was its eye. She wished he had never told her about her true nature, had never enlightened her, that he would just put her to sleep like he had just threatened. If living meant living with him, as proof of his corruption, of his sins against nature, then she didn’t want to. If the truth meant revealing to her that she had to live with a murder’s soul inside of her, that she had to exist to be his tie to immortality, then she refused to acknowledge it. At this point, all she wanted was to be oblivated, to go back to a constant state of confusion and unknowing.

The dark wood of the bed’s frame cracked as her magic targeted the structure, a deafening sound that brought her reality. It was a sobering sight to behold what she had reaped, what destruction she had caused in such a short amount of time. The floor was littered with porcelain shards and destroyed pages from books, the chairs broken and pillows shredded, a few of the walls now marred with rather impressive cracks in their plaster. Harri took a shaky step and then another, her back hitting one of the walls that had managed to escape her wrath. 

She suddenly felt exhausted, stretched too thinly, like the world had become too much and that now it was its turn to swallow her whole. Her knees gave out and she slid down onto the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest to cradle them. The rage that carried her forward, that propelled her into action, had been extinguished, leaving her cold and empty. And for the first time since she could remember, she allowed herself to freely cry. Scorching, angry, frustrated tears that spoke of her grief, of her sorrow, of her frustrations. 


	27. The Many Facades of Lord Voldemort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!! Just a few things in the announcements real quickly--
> 
> 1\. I'm sorry for the later than usual update! I ended up coming home a tad late today and am working on getting the next chapter up sometime tonight!
> 
> 2\. I mentioned this in a comment but I'm doing something a tad different with Voldemort in this story! I love doing character studies and I wanted to do one for him, particularly in exploring the sides to his personality that existed when we don't know him as Lord Voldemort. I've done some research on his key personality traits and how everyone describes Tom Riddle in the books + movies so I want to play around with that. 
> 
> That being said, I'm doing something a tad unconventional and that most fics that feature Voldemort-Turning-Into-Tom-Riddle don't do: I'm having Voldemort not only regain Tom Riddle's physical body but also having his mind and personality revert back as well to reflect the eras in which the horcruxes he absorbed were created. So it'll be creating this new dynamic where he isn't just Lord Voldemort anymore but past versions of Tom Riddle as well. I think this would be fun to explore and hopefully that explains some of the things he does, like why he's struggling with his anger + physical violence and sexuality and whatnot that aren't quite canon for Voldemort. 
> 
> 3\. There is some gore and descriptions of torture in this chapter so please be mindful! I tried my best to warn you guys with a Graphic Violence tag because this story will get a tad darker from here on out.
> 
> As always, you are all amazing and thank you for reading along!! <3

Voldemort had finally given in to his conscience, to the bodiless voice in the background of his thoughts screaming for distance between himself and the girl, to disengage before he could do something worse apart from choking her. Honestly, taking his own current mental state into account, it had been a miracle that he had even listened to it in the first place. The coiled serpent in his chest, the beast baring its fangs, was still singing for violence, for bloodthirsty retribution, to make someone pay quite dearly. It thrummed in his ears, coursed through his veins, synchronised with the tempo of his heartbeat. She had dared to call him vile, to akin him to a parasite leeching off of her when everything she had was _because_ of him. Her fame, her parselmouth abilities, her rapidly expanding magical core that surpassed her peers. All of it came from him, gifts he had bestowed unto her and yet she had the audacity to reject him. Her echoing words refused to leave him in peace, a persistent ghost all too eagerly reminding him of his limits, of the reality of their codependency. Even now, as his feet carried him forward down the stone steps and deep into the earth below, he could see her vivid green eyes, shining with hatred and resentment, her mouth forming the words ‘ _It’s beyond pathetic.’_ And oh how that darkened his mood.

The flames on the wall’s sconces flickered uncertainly as he swept past them, as though afraid to burn too brightly for fear of risking the Dark Lord’s ire. As he descended further, the air began to chill, a dampness clinging to it that made it smell stale. A vindictive thought crossed his mind that he should lock _her_ down here, force her to come to terms with her existence, with her true nature, without him having to coddle her. His fingers tightened around the elder wand, a sharp taste flooding his mouth as he, belatedly, realised his canines were still elongated. It had only been a few days since he had retrieved his human horcrux and things were derailing far too quickly for his tastes. With her around, it had become harder to concentrate on his rise, on appreciating his well-deserved rule, on his victory. Already he had to deal with the facades of the charming ‘Marvolo Gaunt’, lawful Sovereign of Wizarding Britain, and the feared persona of ‘Lord Voldemort’, Dark Lord in the shadows, but now? Now it was becoming painfully transparent that there was another side to him that arose in Harri’s presence, a troubling new reality that had plagued him ever since he had regained his old form. 

He turned sharply around the dimly-lit corner and past the empty cells, his need for bloodied violence urging him forward. While he had, initially, traded his old body for the powers of youth, for a stronger connection to his horcruxes, for the aristocratic looks, there had been some adverse side effects that were starting to make themselves known. While, admittedly, he had never been the best at controlling his temper, the already wire-thin control seemed to be stretched further, thinner, more prone to snapping. It was the same short fuse that belonged in the past, back on the streets of London and brawling in the halls of Wool’s Orphanage. It was the same temper that was associated with youth, a reckless abandon that was afforded to them for their lack of experience, for their lack of control. 

Then there was the issue of his body itself. In his older form, the draws of flesh hadn’t affected him as much as they did now. His desire for pleasure stronger, more assertive in its demands to be sated, a need far too reminiscent of his teenage years. Even before his original fall, it had been easy enough to curb his sexual nature, to restrain its appetite, to push it aside in order to focus on other tasks. Now it had become far harder to do so. Several times already had he taken Bellatrix to his bed, her willingness to please him compatible with his desire for release. It was, at its core, the basest of human necessity, sex without any true meaning. And Voldemort had thought that would be enough to tide him over until he could figure out how to control the urges of his new form, until he could regain and exert some control over it. 

But then Harri Potter had to come along. With her, there was something extra, a buoyancy whenever he touched her as the horcrux in her melded, temporarily, back to the original soul. It was electric, addictive, tempting in a way that Bellatrix wasn’t. A siren’s song that goaded him into wanting to touch her, transforming him ever so slowly into an addict. His knuckles bled white from his grip on the wand, teeth nearly cracking from the pressure in which they were ground against each other. He cursed himself for ever being stupid enough in the first place to absorb back the horcruxes from his youth, for damning himself to relive the discomforts of adolescence.

* * *

* * *

A pained groan, masculine and low, followed by a high reedy laugh, feminine and demented, echoed from the seventh cell. Something pungent and foul permeated the damp air and Voldemort frowned in distaste at the smell, a realisation overcoming him that their prisoner had most likely lost control of his bowels during Bellatrix’s fun. He rounded the corner and swung the metal bars open to reveal the dark-haired witch standing over the slumped form of a portly man, a look of manic delight on her face as he lay in a bloody sweaty heap at her feet. The beast began to claw the inside of his chest raw, howling to be unleashed at the sight of a suitable target for his rage.

“Tiberius Ogden,” he greeted warmly, as though the man were an old friend. Voldemort stepped over the puddle of urine, arms thrown wide in a mock hello, “Welcome to Malfoy Manor. I hope my dear Bella has been keeping you comfortable?”

The stout blond man looked at him in a daze, eyelids blinking rapidly to clear away the drops of blood from obscuring his vision. Recognition dawned in his eyes, followed shortly by paralysing fear, as he saw who had just entered the cell. He scrambled on the ground to crawl further away, voice quivering, “Y-you!”

The Dark Lord let out a soft chuckle, one that spoke of the dangers, of the pain, to come, as he eyed the fleshy wizard on the ground. In his periphery, he saw Bellatrix bow and mumble out a rushed ‘My Lord’ before retreating to a corner.

“Do you have any idea, Ogden,” he moved closer, Oxford shoes clicking loudly against the damp flagstone flooring of the dungeon, “how irksome you truly are?” 

Voldemort crouched on the ground near his prisoner, the elder wand hanging loosely from his grip, as his eyes flitted across the squashed features of the Wizengamot member. In Dumbledore’s absence, Tiberius Ogden had been the one to take up the mantle of a political rebellion against him, trying to pass into motion a bill that all but challenged the legitimacy of his reign. He also had been one of the few to initially oppose Lucius Malfoy, as well as the first to proclaim his loyalty, in front of the entire council nonetheless, to Albus as the true Chief Warlock. A sneer crossed his face, eyes glittering with malice at the thought of Dumbledore’s followers rallying against him, that, even in death, the headmaster was still finding ways to inconvenience him. He recalled his promise from the Tower, a vow to eradicate all mentions or traces of Albus Dumbledore and Ogden was the perfect place to start.

“When D-dumbledore comes back, h-he won’t stand for this!” the older wizard rushed out, stumbling over his own words in panic. The bark of laughter the Sovereign had given, however, did little to quell his nerves or to inspire confidence.

The Dark Lord leaned closer to Ogden, a smirk on his face that betrayed his amusement, his enjoyment, at how his victim was quaking before him, “Oh you poor fool, you have no idea how wrong you are.”

Voldemort straightened himself to hover above the portly wizard, Bellatrix nearly bouncing from foot to foot in the background in excitement, in anticipation. The wand of power began to hum in his hold, heating up pleasantly as if sensing its master’s thoughts, his intentions.

“Crucio,” he intoned softly, watching the body contort in nauseatingly inhuman ways.

The wrath in him grew stronger, the flames being stoked, as he recalled Harri’s poisonous words, as he pictured the damned twinkle in Dumbledore’s pale eyes. 

He fed more power into the curse, relishing in the hoarse screams, in the pleas for him to stop, in the revolting cracks and pops of bone grinding against bone. A soft whisper reminded him that this was who he was, that this is what it meant to be a Dark Lord. To feel the heady pulses of magic in his veins, to hear the alluring song to give in, to chase crashing wave after crashing wave of a high. Yes, he was a _Dark Lord_ , he was _Lord Voldemort_ at his core, not some charming politician with sycophants clinging to him or some starstruck adolescent boy weak from the touch of a girl. He wasn’t sure how long he had casted the spell for but he only ended it when scarlet tinged forth came bubbling out from between those fattened lips, when trails of crimson started to leak from the cavities of his nose and ears, when his brown eyes turned shot from the broken blood vessels.

Voldemort staggered back, panting slightly, the syrup in his veins still coursing strongly from the aftermath of casting an Unforgivable. He was vaguely aware of Bellatrix staring at him with lust shining in her dark eyes, her adoration of him strong enough to be almost palpable. But it wasn’t enough, not when he could still hear the words accusing him of being pathetic, of having limits, of being lesser. His jaw ticked, frustrated that his mind had brought back the ghost of a girl he wished to forget, the girl that he had left locked away to deal with her own emotional insecurities without him having to cater to her. 

The fury was back, ever-mounting, and he stared obsessively at the broken form of the man on the ground. He was everything he despised-- weak, snivelling, one of the many who had idolised a man that Voldemort had personally dragged down from the heavens. And yet, Tiberius Ogden still dared to oppose him, dared to follow some drivel spouted by the very same man that believed in sacrifices for the “greater good”, dared to even dream of a rebellion against him.

“If I remember correctly, Mr. Ogden,” he started slowly, finally catching his breath and drawing strength from the cold savagery nestled within his core, “you have quite the lovely little countryside manor, don’t you? You and your wife live just outside of Lavenham, if my memory is to be trusted.”

The bloodshot eyes casted wildly about the room from the stout wizard’s unmoving head, tremors from a cruciatus curse held too long racking his form. An alarmed groan escaped Tiberius and Voldemort smiled in perverse pleasure at the sound. “

Bella, my dear, I do believe a visit is in order. After all, Mrs. Ogden must be rather terribly worried by her husband’s sudden disappearance.” 

The muffled groans grew louder and the older wizard’s fingers started to twitch in protest. ‘A valiant effort,’ the Dark Lord mused, watching the man before him as a spider would watch a fly caught in its web. A squeal of glee and he turned to see Bellatrix bowing deeply, her voice lowered in a sultry tone to acknowledge his command. Satisfaction, demented, twisted and immense, flooded him. _That_ is what he deserved, obedience and a willingness to please him-- not a defiant teenage girl who felt the need to play the moral high ground, to accuse him of his faults without recognising her own. 

“Oh, and Bellatrix?” he called out after her, eyes still glued to the man before him, “Have some fun, of course, but do try to be discreet.”

Voldemort crouched in front of the Wizengamot member, hand shooting out to grasp unkindly at the flabby skin on his face, wrenching his head back towards him. A smile, all teeth, his eyes glowing like embers in a fire waiting to be stoked back to its former glory.

“Oh no no, Ogden. Don’t turn your attention away from me. After all, we are far from being done here.”

* * *

* * *

The Dark Lord took an unsteady step back, chest rising and falling with exertion as he admired his handiwork. Blood, warm and tacky, coated his hands, his robes, his arms. A random spray had splattered his cheek, marring the pale skin with evidence of the violence he had just committed. His left hand rose to wipe it away, smearing it further in the process. 

He had flayed Ogden alive, had peeled the skin away from his fat and flesh, had left his sinew and muscles exposed to the damp chill of the dungeons. The air was metallic, cloying in its sweetness, as what had started as a small puddle had spread into a crimson lake. The coiled serpent in his chest felt abated, soothed, subsiding back into the further reaches of his mind for the time being. He almost wished Harri could see this, could take in how he was able to skin a man while still keeping him alive, to place him just far enough out of Death’s reach and to control the exact moment when he would, finally, sink into the void. He wondered, bitterly, if she would still find his abilities lacking, still call him pathetic, when she saw how he could cheat Death.

He raised the knobbed wand to the still-beating chest of the skinned wizard, debating about displaying the corpse publicly, to make a warning out of him for all those who still dared to hold faith with Dumbledore, to those who still wanted to break bread with the famous headmaster. ‘A concern for later,’ he thought resolutely, a flash of green filling the small room and illuminating the dark stone walls. The rising chest fell abruptly. 

As he stepped through the puddle of blood, leaving behind a trail of scarlet footprints, his hem being painted by it, he realised something startling. He had felt more alive, more like a Dark Lord, in this moment than he had since bringing Harri into his life, since regaining his old form. And, for once, he couldn’t tell if that was an excellent or a foreboding notion. That, if on some level, this side of him, the side of Lord Voldemort, was being overshadowed by ‘Marvolo Gaunt’ and by ‘Tom Riddle’. During his ascent back from Hell, from the dungeons below, he tentatively probed their bond, eager to see if she had calmed down yet, had accepted her fate so they could both move on. An onslaught of emotions, a whirlwind of grief, frustration and anger, greeted him and he immediately receded, bringing down a stone wall between them and shutting her out.

* * *

* * *

Lucius was waiting for his Lord in the pristine marble parlour, nervously straightening and re-aligning the stack of documents in his hands. When his Lord had presented him with the opportunity to write a press release statement for the attack on Hogwarts, he was beyond delighted and eager to prove himself. But, with the responsibility also came apprehension, a fear of disappointing him and what that disappointment could entail for him, for his family. His blond head shot up at the sound of approaching footsteps, instinctively knowing who they belonged to, and he sank to his knees in reverence.

“My Lord.”

Taking the hum as acknowledgment for him to rise, Lucius opened his mouth to explain how hard he had been working, to express his gratitude for the opportunity, when his words failed him. A trail of crimson, the exact same shade as the Dark Lord’s eyes, had dotted the white flooring, the hems of his black robes dragging the gore through the marble in a gruesome pattern. His arms were soaked in it, his hands stained red, and there was a vivid streak across his face. Only one thought could cross his mind, a thankful prayer to every god he knew, that it hadn’t been him on the receiving end of his Lord’s tender mercies.

“Lucius,” Voldemort drawled, trying to retrain the shocked man’s attention back on him.

With a wandless flourish of his hand, a cleaning spell swept over his form, the cooling tingle of it a welcomed sensation after the heavy heat of the portly wizard’s blood on his skin. He raised an unimpressed eyebrow as he banished the evidence of his wrath, hoping it would be enough to let the pureblood gather together his delicate sensibilities. 

“H-here are the reports from our raid on Hogwarts, My Lord,” the senior Malfoy stuttered, trying to overcome the shock of seeing a Dark Lord in his pristine foyer using a stranger’s blood as though it were warpaint. 

Voldemort thumbed through the papers, humming his approval at the story Lucius had concocted. It was perfect, a devastating blow to the memory of the headmaster’s pristine reputation. A satisfied smirk grew on his face as he read the quick summary in the footnotes: 

> ‘Albus Dumbledore, battling several weighing mental issues and resorting to heavily drinking for escape, had left Hogwarts unattended in his stupor over holiday break. It is believed he was suicidal, numerous professors reporting a sudden gauntness to his body and an adamant refusal to eat during the past few weeks leading up to the incident. Hogwarts, home to many prized and rare artifacts, was looted in his absence by an unknown group of dark wizards. Dumbledore is still missing at the present, his whereabouts currently unknown as he has made no signs of returning. Suicide is heavily spectulated at this time. Severus Snape has been appointed Interim Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.’

He lifted his gaze from the papers, dimly aware of Lucius snapping his fingers for a house-elf to clean up the trail of his footprints.

“Excellent work, Lucius,” he praised, closing the file and already planning the inflections, the expressions, the mannerisms he would use as Marvolo Gaunt to deliver the news.

He turned to leave but Lucius had reappeared at his side, his good mood vanishing at pureblood’s insistence of basking in his company. Irritation growing, he stared impassively as the senior Malfoy opened his mouth and then closed it again, hesitant to speak his mind.

“Forgive me, My Lord,” the pureblood finally gathered the courage to find his words, voice tentative, unsure, “But I have come to understand that Harri Potter was successfully acquired during the raid. I can not help but wonder what your intentions are towards her.”

Voldemort stared evenly at Malfoy, shoulders tensing at the way those pale blue eyes were flitting across his face, far too keen and far too observant. ‘Bloody Slytherins,’ he thought distantly, tone growing cold, “That is none of your concern, Lucius. And until I say otherwise, it would be in your best interest not to utter a single word regarding her current whereabouts. If you do, I can promise you that I will be quite _displeased_.”

Malfoy shrank back at the mild threat, eyes widening and head bowing. He had known that the girl was brought to the mansion but his Lord had also just confirmed that she was, in fact, still very much alive. And, more importantly, she meant something to him to the extent he was hiding it from his followers. As his footsteps receded, the pureblood couldn’t keep his mind from whirling, from trying to piece together what it might possibly mean, what their relationship might fully entail. An image of Draco, standing unusually close to the Potter girl and laughing freely with her, came to his mind. Lucius turned on his heel in search of his son, eager to uncover what Draco had learned about Harri Potter and her connection to the Dark Lord.


	28. She Finally Had Her Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all of my lovelies! Here is the next chapter featuring some Nagini, as promised! I hope you guys enjoy <3 This chapter will also mainly be from Harri's perspective but we get to bring back some characters that have been missing for a few chapters <3
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, for every kudos, and for every comment! You are all amazing <3

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* * *

Morning had come quicker than she had expected, the watery sunlight filtering lazily through the cracks in the drawn drapes. Harri felt beyond sore, far too stiff and rigid. She had spent the night huddled against the wall’s baseboard, head tucked between her knees and wallowing over the truth of her existence. ‘I must have fallen asleep,’ she thought dimly as she stretched her spine, arching it with a crack, trying to chase off the residual discomfort from the awkward position she had spent several hours in. She reached up with the sleeve of her dirty jumper, attempting to clear the crust from her eyes to wake herself up more fully, when she recoiled at the touch, wincing from the stinging sensation that abruptly followed. They were puffy, angry with her after the fact that she had irritated them with her tears. She tilted the auburn crown of her head back to rest against the wall, blowing at a shaky sigh. The room, she firmly decided, looked even worse in the daylight and she knew, without a doubt, Voldemort would be furious at the fact that she had destroyed his pristinely structured bedroom. No small amount of satisfaction filled her, making her chest puff up, when she saw those damned chains had been ripped from the wall.

“Let him be mad,” she mumbled venomously, “he had it coming. What’s he going to do anyways-- kill me?” 

Her hand strayed up to touch her throat at the thought, grimacing at its tenderness and already guessing, without even looking, a bruise in the shape of a handprint was starting to bloom. It felt raw, throbbing, burning with every swallow she took. She picked up a rather substantial piece of white plaster and chucked across the bedroom, groaning in exasperation as it landed with a dull crack. ‘First he bites me and now he chokes me?’ She huffed, her thoughts turning distant as she thought about ways to enact her revenge on him, vindictively debating about returning the favour tenfold to see how he liked it. She had, resolutely, decided not to focus on the horcrux issue for the moment, seeing as it was too early in the morning for indigestion and a pounding headache.

A slithering sound of something large shuffling through the chaos of the room, through the strewn about pages from books and scattered down from the pillows, made her straighten her neck in alarm. The large snake was back, body half raised off the ground and tasting the air curiously.

 _“You’ve made quite the mess, little one,”_ Nagini observed, her head bobbing side to side as she took in the destruction the girl had reaped. ‘Good, it means that she is strong,’ her thoughts were approving, somehow finding the chaos more preferable, more suitable, to a nest than the usual organisation her master liked.

Harri’s eyes glittered in assessment before she decided to throw all caution in the wind, removing her eyes from the approaching snake. ‘At this point,’ she thought with an embittered chuckle, ‘if she decides to eat me, it would be for the best.’ Her head returned to the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed briefly. The emotions, the whirlwind that had unleashed the mayhem upon the room, were all starting to flood back as dulled, almost lifeless, ghosts of what they had been last night. The anger, the horror, all of it felt too muted, too subdued, overshadowed by her exhaustion and fatigue.

 _“B_ _ack in the graveyard,”_ she mused, words coming out a tad shaky as her throat stung in protest at being used, _“you said that I felt familiar. Did you know what I was?”_

The snake began to coil herself around the crook of her legs, head popping up from the space between her knees before receding again, _“Yes.”_

Her green eyes opened slowly to stare, fixedly, at the ceiling. She had noticed, rather belatedly, it was also sporting a sizable crack and she smiled slightly at the thought of all of the repairs he would have to make, _“You’re one of them too, aren’t you?”_

Nagini paused in her looping around the girl’s legs, taking immense pleasure in how warm she was, especially so compared to her master.

 _“I am,”_ the snake responded lightly, as though they were discussing the weather in passing rather than split souls being hidden in living containers.

Harri straightened herself against the wall, propping herself up on her hands to remove the hunch in her back. She stared disbelievingly at the black and green patterned snake, mouth falling open at how casual Nagini had sounded. Distantly, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was the only one that had a problem with this revelation, that she was living a life not entirely her own, that she was forced to, grudgingly, share her existence with another, unable to ever separate.

 _“Why did you let him do that to you?”_ she questioned, eyebrows drawing together in confusion as she tried to desperately understand the snake’s nonchalance.

Nagini slid further up her body, displaced by the sudden change in posture. She had settled for loosely coiling around the witch’s torso, triangular head raised to have her golden eyes meet vivid green ones. They reminded her of her master’s favourite spell, the way it would light up the entire space of a room with its brilliant glow.

_"He is mine and I am his. Just as you are his and he is yours. He protects us so we do the same.”_

She nearly screamed in frustration at the lack of an answer, at the way she had stated it so factually. Shivers ran down her spine at the words of ‘you are his’ and flashes of him atop of her, of him caging her against the bookshelf, of him looking like he had wanted nothing more than to swallow her whole flashed in quick succession in her mind. A small part of her found the concept to be morbidly fascinating. She had never _belonged_ to anyone before, especially so not in that way, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it must feel like. What it must be to have a place with someone, to occupy a spot in their hearts and mind, to have them feel like home. ‘He’s the Dark Lord,’ a rational voice reminded her, trying to derail any dangerous notions before they could even start to blossom. It felt as though cold water had been splashed on her at the sobering realisation, that Nagini was already ascertaining her to the status of an object.

 _“I don’t want to be his,”_ she protested adamantly, the words somehow sounding slightly too feeble to her ears, a touch too lost, too quiet.

The snake nosed her way under the girl’s shirt, pleased at the heat rolling off more intensely from her direct skin. When the witch hadn’t pried her away, she slithered up and appeared out from the neckline, her flat head bobbing in a sage nod, _“You will.”_

Her forked tongue flicked out to scent the air, licking across the bruise blooming on her neck, tasting the heat emanating from it as it tried to heal. Nagini reared back, hissing with displeasure at the sight. It hadn’t escaped her notice the way the girl had gone rigid, her heart rate rapidly picking up, and it took her a second to puzzle out why.

 _“I told him to be lenient,”_ the snake explained, voice coated thickly in distaste at his callousness, at his aggression. She made a mental note to scold him later, to chastise and maybe nip him in the ankle to make him fully understand her warnings about violence against little ones who had yet to develop their own fangs.

 _“To be gentle.”_ Nagini squeezed slightly tighter around Harri, unwilling to let go, an irrational thought crossing her mind that the human girl, the hatchling that she had claimed as her own, would only acquire further injuries if she let her out of her sight. 

_“Nagini,”_ she wheezed out, the constriction, combined with the hefty weight of the serpent’s body, making it hard to breath. She muttered out a quick thank you when the snake took the hint and went back to loosely coiling around herself. 

_“How many are there, anyways?”_ she ventured to ask, a grim curiosity overcoming her to understand the extent to which Voldemort had ruined himself, had made himself an abomination against nature, had so deeply marked himself as a monstrosity. 

_“There were seven with you. 1 that you destroyed,”_ she added slyly, curling around the back of the human’s neck, _“Then he took 3 and left 3. You and I, we have a brother left. A locket.”_

A tugging sensation, an uncomfortable squirm, spread through her chest at Nagini’s words, suggesting that they had a ‘brother’. It bothered her, made her stomach clench and her teeth grind, at how readily the snake was recognising her as another horcrux, as part of the fold.

Then Harri’s eyes widened as she processed the information of what had been slipped, her jaw dropping as she pieced together what Nagini had meant by her destroying one. ‘The bloody diary.’ Pictures of Tom Riddle emerging from the book’s pages, the black ink spewing forth from the cover’s bindings, the way he had been pierced through by light, the agonized screams when he disappeared. She had _destroyed_ it, had rendered it back to a useless diary with a hole in its leather cover. If that had happened to the journal, then that meant it might happen for her as well, that there might be a way to get rid of the shard within her, let her go back to being a human.

She jolted forward, tone suddenly desperate, pleading, _“So there is a way to destroy them. Nagini, how do you get rid of a horcrux?”_

* * *

* * *

A sharp pop drew both of their attention as, a few feet away, a house elf with knobby knees and too big ears stood nervously. The creature shifted from foot to foot under Harri’s owlish stare, coughing timidly into a balled fist.

“I was summoned to help the Miss bathe,” it explained shyly, as though too afraid to say anything more for fear of angering the witch.

Harri gaped at the creature’s sudden appearance, struggling to get to her feet with the heavy weight of a snake curled about her shoulders. She struggled to separate the serpent from her, its length almost twice her height, and she decidedly ignored the hissing grumbles of one malcontent Nagini. The idea of a bath sounded heavenly, a luxury she didn’t even know she had missed. It had been how many days- she blinked in alarm at the thought, suddenly unsure what the date even was, the hours having blurred together in a seamless, endless loop.

The redheaded girl struggled to keep the snake at bay, pushing her away with a foot when she tried to start climbing up on her again, “What did you say your name was?”

Tennis ball-sized eyes stared at her in astonishment, confusion muddling the poor creature’s bright gaze. Its gnarled fingers went down to twist the hem of its pillowcase sheet, debating about whether or not it was proper to reveal its name, “I is called Zivvy, Miss. And I be serving the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, Miss.”

She nearly laughed in outraged shock, at the absurdity of it all, that he had taken her to _Malfoy Manor_ of all places. Part of her wondered if it was because he didn’t have a house of his own or if it was because he enjoyed imposing himself on people, to make them feel uncomfortable. That, perhaps, he took pleasure in asserting his dominance over all aspects of his follower’s lives, including the one involving their home. ‘Probably the second, the sadistic controlling prick he is,’ were her soured thoughts. But if it meant that she was in the Malfoy’s home, that must also mean--. 

‘Draco’s here.’ A new hope filled her, lighting her nerves in joy, in relief, making her feet suddenly feel lighter and her shoulders less tense. The Slytherin boy had helped her escape once already, back at the raid of Hogwarts, so maybe she could find a way to encourage him again, implore him and stoke back up the flames of his bravery. It was his home after all. Maybe he knew of some secret passageway or some means to slip off unnoticed. It had crossed her mind to ask the house elf to whisk her away but she highly doubted it would oblige her request or that the wards, which were probably quite dense, would even let her pass. She leaned forward, hands on her knees, eyes glimmering with anticipation and trying to ignore the way Nagini was watching her with unblinking eyes.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Zivvy. A bath sounds lovely but I have another favour to ask as well.”

The house elf’s ears started to flutter in excitement, adoration bright in her purple gaze at the witch’s kindness, at her gentle manner. “Anything, Miss! Zivvy lives to serve.”

She was reminded, rather fondly, of Dobby and prayed he was living his free life to its fullest. Harri swallowed at the way Nagini stared up at her unwaveringly, as if already guessing her plan, already knowing of her wish to escape. Leaning in closer, lowering her voice as if afraid to speak too loudly for fear _he_ would somehow hear, tone conspiratorial, “After you draw me a bath, could you please tell Draco that I’m here? That I want to see him?”

* * *

* * *

The bathroom was just as ostentatious, just as lavish, as the bedroom, Harri had decided. It was an entirely white room, every surface covered in marble with veins of black, the faucets gleaming in gold. It seemed that the Malfoys enjoyed flaunting their wealth, preferring to live in obscene luxury. But then again, she already knew that. She could still remember when Draco had joined the Slytherin Quidditch team, crowing about how his parents had bought the latest Nimbus models for all its members. ‘What a prat,’ she thought, the words lacking any real bite and holding a certain degree of fondness as she reflected back on a simpler time, one in which the only dangers had been errant bludgers and the threat of falling from her broom.

She stripped off her tattered sweater and stained sneakers, grimacing as she noticed, for the first time, how her hair smelled of smoke, of sweat, of her failure to outrun the Dark Lord. In her periphery, she saw flashes of pale skin, of a slender body and soft curves, of vivid auburn hair, streaking past the sink’s vanity. Harri slipped into the bathtub sunken down into the floor, moaning at the heat of it, at the comfort it provided. She couldn’t bear to look at her reflection, not yet at least. With her too green eyes and oversaturated colours, to see the not-quite-spitting image of her mother staring back at her, an adulterated and corrupted version of Lily Potter. She felt like an imposter in a shell, an alien wearing the face of someone dear to her and long gone, a monster trying to play human and distorting every aspect that would make her one.

Harri sunk further into the fragrant water, idly skimming her fingers around the rose petals floating on the surface. As much as she hated to admit it, the bath felt beyond wonderful. A soothing balm to her worries, and, if she pretended hard enough, she could imagine it was washing away her impurities, cleansing her soul of the darkness she didn’t even know she had. She glanced down at her exposed chest, the gentle swell of it half covered by the water, and she frowned. Outwardly, she didn’t look any different, her body unchanged and the same she had always known. But inwardly? It felt foreign, suddenly tainted, as though it weren’t her own. A hand raised on its own will to cup at the soft curve of where her left breast began, feeling her heart beat steadily behind it. A rhythmic, pulsating sound. She closed her eyes, grimacing when she swore she could hear her name being called in echos between the beats, a mocking tempo. _Thump. Thump. Thump. Harri. Harri. Harri._

Throwing her head back, she plunged herself under the water to escape the voice, to drown out the crawling sensation of something trying to break free from her ribs.

* * *

* * *

Lucius had found his son seated next to his wife in the solarium, Narcissa consumed by rearranging calla lilies in a black vase and Draco on the chaise lounge with his nose in a book. Neither had looked up at the clipped sounds of his shoes echoing against the polished stones, the weak morning light flooding through the glass panels and casting everything in a watery glow. “

Dearest,” he cleared his throat, hands curling around the metal serpent at the head of his cane and eyes glued to his son.

“Husband,” Narcissa mused in response, the corners of her mouth pulling into a frown as she fussed with the white flowers, gaze not lifting upwards.

The older Malfoy paused in front of the lounge, his wife suddenly glancing up in apprehension at the sudden interest in their child. With a single eyebrow raised at his son's inattention, he drawled, “Draco.” 

A blond head shot up, wide-eyed at seeing his father in the solarium. Lucius usually never dared to set foot in here, the greenhouse having become a universally acknowledged place of solitude and respite for him and his mother. He blinked slowly, alarmed and tense, as his father impatiently tapped his stretched out legs with the end of his cane in a signal for him to make room. He placed them to the ground, slipping in a silk bookmark between the pages to hold his place.

“Father,” he responded equally cautious, mimicking the same inflections that had been used on his name.

Lucius swiftly sat down, ignoring the way Narcissa was staring at him in a hawklike fashion. Eagerness flooded him as he leaned closer to his son, hungry and searching for information, “As I have come to understand it, you were rather close to the Potter girl at Hogwarts, were you not?”

“Lucius!” his wife hissed in warning, the chair scraping loudly against the stone as she jolted upwards, her hands clutching the table’s edge.

As far as she knew, only her and her husband were aware of the girl’s presence in the manor and were under explicit instructions from their Lord not to indicate otherwise. It was a direct defiance for the Malfoy head to even speak her name, and now he was dragging their son into it. She glanced uneasily about the room, half-expecting the Dark Lord to appear, to retaliate against their disobedience, to punish them all for their disloyalty. 

Draco blinked slowly at his father, trying to understand where this conversation was heading, what he possibly could want to know. He was unaware of what had happened to the redheaded witch after they had parted ways, desperately assuming that she had gotten away like he had hoped. Perhaps that’s why his father was asking about her? To find information that could lead their Lord to her. His shoulders tensed, resolute to not give anything away if he could help it.

“I wouldn’t say we were close, Father. She was a thorn in my side, a rival more than anything.”

Lucius scoffed, eyes turning bright with hunger, with impatience at his son’s blatant lie. His fingers clenched around the cane as he observed his son’s tense posture, the tick in his jaw. And as much as he hated to admit it, Draco was their best bet to finding out any information on the Potter girl, on what she might possibly mean to their Lord.

“Don’t be coy, Draco. I saw you two in the Great Hall on rather _friendly-looking_ terms. Tell me,” he edged closer, “In all of your conservations, did she ever say anything about the Dark Lord? About a potential connection, a specific relationship to him?”

Draco opened his mouth to deny it all, to demand why his father was even asking him in the first place, to adamantly refuse any close relationship with her, when a sharp pop resounded. A few feet away was one of their house-elves, rocking on her feet in excitement.

“Miss Potter requests Mr. Draco’s presence in the East Wing.”

The younger Malfoy stared in shock, blinking in a dazed stupor at the elf as he tried to process its words. ‘She was here,’ he thought dimly, feeling ill, ‘she didn’t get away. She was _here’_

He shot to his feet, looking wildly between his parents, confusion and anger colouring his voice, “She’s here?! In the Manor?!”

“Draco!” Narcissa called after him as her son whirled on the spot to leave, desperate for him not to do anything stupid.

She could tell, after all, that her son cared for the girl more than he would verbally admit. It was a mother’s intuition, a blessing and curse. And now it would be those feelings for her that would endanger him, entangle him with the Dark Lord further when all she wanted was to hide him away, keep him safe. She glared venomously at her husband, at the house-elf who was shrinking back under her wrath, and threw the calla lilies forcefully down onto the table.

Lucius reacted faster than his wife, already on his feet and snapping his cane out to land heavily on his son’s shoulder. He ignored the way Draco had winced in pain, panicked at his child’s sudden rashness.

He pulled him closer to him, his hand shooting out to grasp his shoulder in a vice-like grip, voice urgent and leaving no room for questioning, “You _will_ _not_ go to her, Draco. The Dark Lord has forbidden it, explicitly stating no one, apart from your mother and I, was to even know she’s here. If he were to find out, I can not even fathom his anger.” 

Draco tried to shrug off his father’s hold, to protest at being kept in the dark, to demand why, if their Lord had her, she was still alive. And being kept in the East Wing, nonetheless, rather than the dungeons. But seeing the sharp glance from his mother, the desperation and fear in both of their eyes, he swallowed down his words. He looked helplessly, first to Narcissa, then to Lucius, feeling dizzy and nauseous. ‘Why was she here?’ he thought desperately, trying to piece together a puzzle that was lacking too many of its pieces.

* * *

* * *

The soft click of the bedroom door being open had Harri rushing from the tub, hair soaking wet and leaving behind a trail of puddles on the floor. ‘Draco!’ she thought joyously, hurriedly shrugging on the plush bathrobe and securing the ties around her midsection. She almost hadn’t expected Zivvy to follow through with her request, waiting for the house elf to deny her, to say it wasn’t possible. And, for the first time since falling into the hands of a certain Dark Lord, she felt uplifted, happy, floating. Thoughts of the horcrux inside of her, the impending doom swirling in her chest whenever she thought of her future, were all blown away as she threw open the bathroom door.

However, standing among the rubble of the room and unable to conceal the horror in his coal eyes, was not Draco Malfoy. Instead of the fair-haired pureblooded boy, there stood the towering frame of a man dressed head to toe in black, cape drawn tightly around his frame, and hooked nose wrinkled in distaste at the carnage she had sown.

“Professor Snape,” she breathed out in relief, in shock, at seeing the man once again. 


	29. Snape's Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's a tad longer of a chapter today but I got a bit carried away writing as Snape again lol. I promise you though that Harri and Tom interactions will be back in the next chapter <3
> 
> Thank you so so so much everyone for the amount of kudos you have given this story and the amount of love you've shown it! I really didn't expect it to be this well-received and I am beyond delighted! You guys make me cry and you are all amazing readers <3 Enjoy!!

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Severus Snape had determined that he would never again lay eyes on Harri Potter after the night of December 20th, coming to the conclusion that one of two scenarios would have played out in his absence. The first being the most preferable outcome in which she would escape, get to Hogsmeade, and leaving him to die at the hands of Dumbledore or Voldemort. The second, he shuddered to think about, assumed she would be captured by the Dark Lord and, much like in scenario one, he would be 6 feet under on his way to join her in the afterlife. So one could imagine the immense surprise, combined with no small amount of horror, of the potions master when he awoke a few hours after the raid was completed, healed, and granted the title of Headmaster to a school he felt very little attachment to. It appeared that, as usual, fate was spitting in his face, mocking him behind his back, torturing him for his past sins in a final ditch attempt to earn his atonement.

The newly-appointed headmaster had found himself in Dumbledore’s old office, removing traces of the man’s presence and clearing away the long cold cups of chamomile on his desk. His stomach clenched painfully at the innocuous sight of them, at the thought that Albus would never have the chance to drink from them ever again. With a flourish of his wand, the china set disappeared from existence. It was a feeble attempt to eradicate remnants of the old wizard, the urgent need to do so before the ever-mounting guilt of what Severus had done could override him, tear down his defenses and render him useless. And, as he had come to find out the hard way, the new Sovereign of their world had very little desire for useless things. 

Almost on cue, as if sensing the turn his thoughts had taken, a sharp sensation radiated from his mark, his summons, the beckoning of the Dark Lord. He grimaced, shakily pouring himself a glass of fire whiskey, knocking it back, relishing in the burn at the back of his throat. In between his endeavours in rebuilding the school, and his weak efforts to cajole the other professors into accepting his newly-appointed authority, Snape had been actively trying to find the trail of the Potter girl. But, as it turned out, she was rather slippery to locate, seemingly having disappeared into thin air. At this point, he could only pray that she had listened to him, had managed to get to Hogsmeade unharmed, to leave the school’s ground, or, better yet, perhaps even Britain. ‘Merlin only knows where she is.’ The stinging in his mark, hot oil dancing across his skin, flared at Voldemort’s ire of being kept waiting. He hissed in pain, the room blurring away as he prepared to bend his knee to his Lord and sign away his soul yet again.

* * *

* * *

As it turned out, fate truly loved using Snape as its own punching bag, finding ever new ways to torment him, to render him speechless and astonished. That is how he had found himself standing in the middle of the Dark Lord’s chambers, marvelling in its destruction, in its carnage. On the bright side, though twisted it may be, neither scenario he predicted had played out: she had been captured, yes, but he was still alive. And being alive meant he still could help her, find small ways to aid her, to keep her from the clutches of Death. So when his Lord had ordered him to heal the girl, to soothe her mental turmoil, to mend her, he had armed himself with the presumption that he would stumble upon the worst and a determination to make her whole once more. 

But even so, no amount of mental fortitude could have prepared him for the chaos of the room, for the cracked ceilings and walls, the broken porcelain and shredded books.

“Sweet Merlin,” he muttered, stepping around what had suspiciously appeared to be a shattered teapot.

The bedroom looked as though an obscurus had passed through it, tearing it apart and shredding everything it came in contact with during its fit of rage. Chills passed through his frame, a lump forming in his throat, at the foreboding sense of what the Potter girl must have looked like. For a brief second, he almost wished that she were dead, that she could find some relief from the Dark Lord’s unassailable wrath.

“Professor Snape!” he whirled around in alarm at the relieved voice, eyes widening marginally as he took in the form of a shivering redheaded witch, drenched and in a bathrobe, a puddle forming at her feet. His eyes flitted over her frame, taking in the sallowness of her skin, the dark circles that had begun to form under her eyes and-- he winced seeing her throat.

A rather substantial bruise was blooming in sharp contrast to her pale skin, already a deep purple with yellowing fanning around the edges. Distinctly, he could make out the impression of fingers, the colouration darker on the sides where more pressure had been applied, imprints that spoke of violence, of an urge to extinguish the flame of life from her. But, apart from those disturbing details, she looked, suspiciously, intact, whole, not at all the grisly state he was expecting to find her in.

He raised a single eyebrow at her, trying to keep his tone level, to act blasé when he truly wasn’t, “Do you always greet your guests in a bathrobe, Potter?”

Snape considered her as she blinked once, then twice, before letting out a shaky laugh that sounded forced, strained even to his ears. His gaze tracked the way her hand rubbed gingerly at her throat, the way she flinched in pain, a smile somehow still on her face in spite of everything.

“It’s good to see you too, professor,” she said rather pointedly, frowning at why he was here rather than Draco. She took a step forward, hissing and letting out a slew of curses as she stepped on an errant shard of glass. Blood began to well out from the piece lodged in her foot, dripping thickly onto the flooring.

“Sweet bloody Hell! God that hurts.”

He rushed over in an instant, wand out and vanishing the debris from around her in a wide circle, eyeing the bright flecks of crimson dotting the grey wood. Already the two armchairs in front of the fireplace were patching themselves together, reconstructing and knitting back their destroyed upholstery.

“You foolish girl, watch where you are going at the very least. Honestly, Potter, how one can be so careless is beyond my comprehension.” 

Despite his biting words, his scolding tone, he offered her an arm to guide her, limping, over to one of the chairs. She felt oddly thin, her weight nearly nonexistent, and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was a recent development or if she had always been this small, this flighty, this wisplike. After she had settled down, he followed suit and yanked her injured foot onto his lap. Wand hovering above it, he intoned a soft 'episkey', watching the glass fall from the wound and the flesh meld back together.

Snape could feel her burning stare on him and he looked up, mouth pulled into a grim line, “What happened here, Potter? Why did you fail to get to Hogsmeade as I had instructed?”

She stared at him owlishly, shocked that he was still alive, that he had managed to escape both Dumbledore and Voldemort unscathed. And she wasn’t sure if she had already become this delusional, this starved for company leftover from the life she once knew, but Harri found herself actually smiling at the man, warmed at seeing him, at how he hadn’t changed. She glanced uneasily about the room, biting her lower lip in contemplation.

“I tried to,” she started slowly, brows drawn together as she attempted to recall a night that seemed so distant, as though it had happened ages ago, “But he caught me in the woods. As for the room, well-- I lost control of my temper, just a bit.” 

Harri flinched under his unrelenting stare, incredulity making his dark eyes burn brighter.

“You. Just. Lost. Your. Temper?” he echoed, trying to comprehend her stupidity, that she was the one to cause the destruction around them and not the Dark Lord.

It was an unsettling conclusion, a disturbing dawning of a notion, that she was even capable of doing such, that her core had the ability to conjure up devastating bouts of magic even without a wand. He roughly pushed her leg off his lap, sneering at her recklessness, the need to pull out his hair quite almost overwhelming.

“You stupid, mindless, irresponsible child. Losing your temper, of all things, and reducing the Dark Lord’s bedroom to rubble. Do you have a death wish or are you just that reckless, Potter? ”

She groaned, wincing a bit at his tone and knowing, deep down, that he was right. Her fuse had always been short, that was true, but never to the point of destroying a room before, especially the room of someone who, some might say, had an even worse disposition than she did.

The healed foot fell to the ground with a dull thud, and she bit harder down on her lower lip, “Do you think he’ll be mad?”

He stared at her impassively, trying to assure himself that, for some reason, his Lord had yet to kill her, and most likely didn’t have plans to do so in the near future either. Why heal someone, after all, restore them back to their health? ‘To prolong the experience,’ a voice supplied in his mind and he stubbornly pushed it away, not wanting to deal on the thought.

“Undoubtedly,” he stated with purposeful inflections, mind whirling with vague notions of a plan to help her escape, to smuggle her out, the difficulty in doing such increasing with her being so entangled in the Dark Lord’s clutches. Snape fell back in his chair, frustrated and a headache forming when he realised it would be next to impossible.

“Professor,” she ventured tentatively in the following silence, trying to draw the wizard’s attention back to her and out of his mind, “What are you even doing here? What happened afterwards, with you, er with Dumbledore? What day even is it?”

His gaze snapped back to her, alarmed and panicked. Warning flags, sharp things that spoke of caution, began going off. ‘She doesn’t know,’ he thought in trepidation, unsure of how much he could, should, reveal to her, ‘He hasn’t told her anything’. His spine straightened and he steepled his fingers, trying to stop them from trembling, from betraying his own nerves.

“Potter, listen to me carefully,” his voice was low, uncertain, “I have been brought here by the Dark Lord to heal you. It’s December 26.” 

She blinked at him, heart dropping to her stomach, her blood turning chilled. She had thought it had been a day, two, maybe three but sweet Merlin, December 26? That would mean that she would have been here for almost an entire week, that she had been missing for 6 full days.

“No no no no,” she chanted under her breath, slumping forward and burying her head in her hands.

By this time, she was supposed to be at the Burrow, was supposed to have celebrated Christmas with Hermione and Ron and the rest of the Weasley bunch. It was at the thought of her friends waiting for her, their promises not to kick off the festivities before she would arrive, that caused tears to prick at her eyes.

“Does anyone know? That I’m here, I mean. What is Dumbledore saying?” her words were muffled by her posture, trying desperately to blink away the tears, trying not to feel upset by missing Christmas, her friends, the merriment. Of all things, it felt ridiculous, given the current situation, and she chastised herself for being such a child.

Snape eyed her hunched over form warily, unsure how to delicately handle the situation. Espionage, spying, brewing potions--those were the things he excelled at, not emotions, not comforting someone who was, rightfully so, inconsolable. He decided that, for the time being, it would be easiest to omit some of the truth in hopes that she would be able to better process smaller chunks rather than the whole.

“No, not yet. Dumbledore is currently...missing. From what I have gathered, they are painting it as a looting done by a rogue group of random dark wizards, claiming that they were after some of the more rare artifacts hidden at Hogwarts.”

Harri’s head snapped up at that, eyes shining brightly with fury at the injustice, at the false truth of the situation.

“That’s ridiculous, though,” she bit out fiercely, still finding, despite her bitter resentment, a shred of loyalty towards the headmaster, “Dumbledore would never leave Hogwarts unattended nor would he let thieves into the castle.”

Severus swallowed thickly at the green eyes burning with anger, alight from the flames in her chest, at the way she had tensed her jaw and drew her eyebrows together. It was Lily all over again, the expression the girl before him was wearing one that he was all too familiar with. His heart tightened uncomfortably, the lies coating his mouth in a bitter aftertaste, acid rising in the back of his throat.

“Be that as it may, that is what they are passing it off as. In the meantime, I have been appointed as the Interim Headmaster. Not by my choice, I can assure you.” 

Harri slumped against the back of her chair, unable to fully believe and process the lies that Voldemort was spinning. She knew the press would trust him, eating up whatever tale he had concocted straight out the palm of his hand. To the students who had remained, it certainly seemed like a random attack by dark wizards, every one of her peers unaware of the Death Eaters existence or what they would have even looked like. Same with the professors-- the ones that would have recognised the group as such had gone home or on vacation. She let out a shaky laugh, mind reeling at the grim recognition that he had thought of _everything_. The timing, the professors that would be left, limiting how many people could recognise him, could see his Mark floating in the night sky.

“How long had he been planning this, I wonder,” she mused more to herself, hating the small part of her that was mildly impressed with him, at his strategy, at his foresight. 

Severus allowed the girl to her thoughts for a moment, feeling oddly off-kilter, off-balance, that he had lied to her, that he had left out the most crucial detail of all: Dumbledore was dead, felled by Lord Voldemort’s own hands in the Astronomy Tower. He briefly closed his eyes, praying for her, for the universe, to forgive him for adding another sin to his karmic debt. He schooled his features back into something more neutral, to hide the fact he was lying through his teeth, having remembered his entire purpose for being here. “

Let me see your neck, Potter. I doubt the Dark Lord will let me stay long.”

Her thoughts were broken and she jumped in her chair, blushing slightly in embarrassment that she had let her attention wander.

“Right, yeah of course,” she pulled the collar of the bathroom down a little further to fully expose the bruise, leaning her head back with a hiss of pain to give him better access. She flinched at the probing of his cold fingers, catching a glimpse of his frown from the corner of her eye. 

“Any more pressure and he would have damaged your windpipe,” his tone had turned cold in his anger, eyes glittering with thinly-veiled rage.

He still hadn’t ascertained as to what his Lord intended for her but, staring at the swirl of purples and yellows spanning across her neck, he had determined it would still be a fate at her expense. In the background of his thoughts, he could hear the faint pleas of a woman from beyond the grave, the ghostly voice of his only love begging for him to save her child. To find some way to prevent further violence from befalling her, to ensure hands could never be laid upon her skin in such a manner ever again. A sudden thought dawned on him that seized his heart, a faint memory of seeing another mark on the girl’s cream-coloured skin, one that plagued him for weeks at its viciousness.

“Potter, that bite mark from the summer,” his hands stilled in the featherlight prodding, tone cautious, hesitant to know the answer, “That was from him as well, wasn’t it?” 

His eyes tracked the movement as she swallowed, the slight bob in her throat, the way her fingers had twitched in her lap. Severus already knew the answer long before she verbally confirmed it, his stomach clenching painfully at the realisation he always had the ability to touch her, to hurt her. It never mattered whether or not she was physically distanced from him, whether she was hidden behind the stone walls of Hogwarts, was kept in the toxicity of the Dursley’s home or in the shadows of Dumbledore. He had _always_ been there.

“Yeah,” she stated simply, quietly, unsure of what he had wanted to hear, wanted her to say. 

In all honesty, the potions master was more enraged with himself, with Dumbledore, for falsely believing, even for a second, that they could protect her. He had seen the signs, had seen the way the bite had reeked of parselmagic, unable to be healed by him. And yet, he still had been naive, had tried to tell himself it was her acting out in rebellion with a dalliance with some random muggle or wizard.

“You irresponsible, foolish little girl. Did you not think, for a second, that revealing that the Dark Lord had access to your mind would be important?” he snapped at her, frustration clear in his voice, alarm mounting.

“What? About the fact that Voldemort was visiting me in my dreams and decided to take a bite out of my neck? Yeah, sure, that doesn’t sound like I’m completely insane at all,” she jerked from his hold, eyes blazing in indignation, her tone accusing and full of vitriol, “What about you? You never told me you were a Death Eater. Hell, does Dumbledore even know?! You’re the reason he got into the castle in the first place!”

Snape shrank back at her words, knowing the girl was unaware of how right she truly was. It had been his fault, undoubtedly. He was the one to let the monster into their home, he was the one who all but served Dumbledore on a silver platter for the Dark Lord, he was the one who had been plotting, planning, spying for sixteen long years. It was a knife to his conscience and she was twisting the handle, digging it further, mercilessly, into the already festering wound. 

He felt weary, exhausted, stretched too thin. His sins were a chain and ball about his feet, the ground beneath him quicksand that was swallowing him whole, urged on the more he floundered. No longer did he feel like a 36-year-old man with his life ahead of him, dreaming of glory and the moment when he had finally had enough to feel content.

With a drained sigh, he reached back for her neck, “Let me heal you, Potter. Our time is running out and we still have things to discuss.”

She acquiesced to his request, the dull look in his eyes frightening her, his lack of a retort unnerving. A feeling of cool air being blown onto the bruise, a refreshing tingle spreading outwards from her neck and into her chest, and then the pain was gone. Mumbling a thanks, she cocked her head to one side and then another, experimentally testing to see if there would be any residual sharp aches. There were none.

“I know that you have been asked to sacrifice quite a bit in your life, Harri.'

The girl looked up, startled at his usage of her first name, at how solemn he sounded. For some reason, it made her panic, her breaths suddenly seeming too short, too rapid. This wasn’t like Snape, the biting potions master who always sneered at her, who always had sharp words on the tip of his tongue even in the face of danger. This was a shell of that man, one who seemed tired and too desperate to carry on.

“But I have to ask, once again, for you to sacrifice a tad more. Our world is changing, leaving us at the whims and mercies of the Dark Lord,” he shuddered at the thought, heart lead in his chest and dully beating, “We are all hostages in his game, one that we can not win.”

She opened her mouth to protest, to argue that he was wrong, that no, they could still fight. But the second she did, all that came forth was a mute exhale of air. Because, as she had come to the horrifying understanding, he was right to some degree. They weren’t able to fight him, not like this, not with Dumbledore missing, not with the most loyal to him scattered like leaves in the wind. And it most certainly didn’t help that the Girl-Who-Lived, the champion, the bringer of peace was also missing. It settled as a heavy pit, a medicine bitter and hard to swallow.

“A Dark Lord at large is one thing. An angry one, furious and vengeful, is altogether another,” he explained softly, eyes casting about the destroyed room, wondering, briefly, if his Lord was listening in, “This is why I urge you, I beg of you, endear yourself to him. Comply when you can and avoid his wrath.”

He raised a hand at the protest already forming on her tongue, a grim tightness in the corners of his mouth, “Live, for your friends’ sake, if not for your own. Do not give him reason to kill you, to make your existence painful. I have seen the things he can do and, I encourage you, Potter, to believe me when I say he can do far worse than bring you death.” 

Snape trained his stare on her, pain and desperation glinting the depths of his coal eyes. His voice had fallen to a near whisper, longing and regret making his words go straight to her heart and twist cruelly around it, “Do not let your mother’s sacrifice go in vain.”

How badly she wanted to scream that it already had, that Voldemort had gotten to her in an irreversible way, that he had tainted and ruined the only child of the woman Snape had so desperately loved. She wanted to yell that her mother’s sacrifice was already in vain, that Harri Potter had died that night on October 31st, that she was nothing more than a shell keeping the Devil earthbound. But an irrational fear, a small voice in the back of her mind, urged her not to, to keep her actual nature hidden, to not allow Snape a glimpse of the truth. 

She thought it was ridiculous, that the man had proven himself loyal more than enough. But then images of Dumbeldore were summoned, unbidden and unwanted. Of him, the man she once wholeheartedly trusted to keep her alive, attempting to murder her when he had discovered what she was. _‘Desperation makes even good men do vile things,’_ it whispered, her stomach flipping and nausea gripping her when she recognised that deep voice. The horcrux was warning her, alerting her to an unknown danger, acting out in self-preservation. And, no matter how much she may have tried, she was more than certain no words would have even been able to leave her mouth anyways.

A sharp hiss of agony escaped Snape as he clutched at his left forearm, an increasing sting alerting him that their time was up. He looked frantically at the girl before him, mind racing with the possibilities of what might await her, of how useless he truly was to save her. Reaching into the depths of his robes, he shoved a glass vial in her hands, explaining in a pinched tone as he fought through the waves of pain.

“He’s coming. A Calming Draught, it’ll help you.”

She stared at the robin’s egg blue liquid sloshing around in the glass, frowning and eyebrows drawn in contemplation. _‘Do you trust him enough to drink it?’_ the voice countered in alarm, urging her to think before taking a random potion that she, herself, hadn’t brewed. Harri chanced a glimpse at Snape, at his shuttered face and quickened breaths that spoke to his suffering. She berated herself for even doubting its authenticity in the first place, for questioning his intentions when all he had wanted to do was to help her. Uncorking it, she knocked it back knowing that she would, undoubtedly, require its assistance to keep her temper in check if Voldemort was already returning. The refreshing taste of peppermint flooded her mouth, the effect almost instantaneous as the worry, the anxiety, the fear all became dulled, subdued, the tension leaving her body.

Returning the bottle back to him, surprised by how much she meant her next words, “Thank you. And Professor? I really hope I see you again.”

He rose from the chair, gritting his teeth as the stinging morphed into an insistent heat, a burning that relayed he needed to leave now. He took in the girl before him, eyes flitting over her features as though trying to commit her to his memory, a nagging feeling in his chest telling him it would be awhile before he would see her again. A small smile, a bittersweet one, tugged on his thin lips as he stared down at the child that should have been his.

“You as well, Potter.”


	30. Their Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here's the next chapter and, as I promised, Harri and Voldemort are back <3
> 
> You guys are all too amazing and far too kind, thank you so much! It still amazes me how much attention and love you have all shown this fic and it makes me beyond delighted! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone still reading along and I hope you enjoy! <3

* * *

* * *

Voldemort watched the clock obsessively, each tick, each second, an agony for him to endure. It seemed every pass of the minute hand was intent on wearing down his already thin patience, slowly chipping and carving away at it until nothing would be left to withstand his baser instincts--the very same ones that sang for him to sink his teeth into the girl and to demand her obedience. ‘You promised them 20 minutes,’ a quiet voice whispered, reminding him of his promise, and he drew his lips back into a sneer. Of course, there was nothing binding to that agreement other than his reputation, his word, the image he was trying so desperately to cultivate with her that he could be benevolent. 

The Dark Lord abruptly pushed his chair back from the dining room table, his meal entirely forgotten as he began to pace across the white marble floors. He had taken his midday meal in solitude, as he usually did, but now he found himself regretting the decision. Here, in the silence of the dining room, all that was to occupy him was that damnable ticking and his own thoughts. ‘15 minutes,’ he noted as he glanced up, the beast confined to its cage baring its fangs in a lack of patience. Earlier that morning, he had been cornered by Nagini, his familiar deeming it fit to chastise and rebuke him for ‘attacking a hatchling without fangs’, as she had put it, before slyly alluding that he had gotten what he deserved by the state of his room. 

There were a few fundamental truths to his character but one of the largest was that he coveted and held in no small regard his earthly possessions. He supposed it was a residual effect from his time spent in Wool’s Orphanage, where having anything that could distinguish you from the masses of dirty-faced, too thin, too violent street urchins was considered a remarkable feat. The second one that was central to him, to what composed his personality, was that he took immense pleasure in organisation, in keeping things orderly and working like a well-oiled machine. And it appeared that both foundational truths had been upset, shattered, destroyed by his little horcrux. The way Nagini had snickered, had jeered, had coyly suggested to his private chambers being destroyed made his jaw tick and his fangs bared. 

‘10 minutes.’ The grip on his wand tightened, pale fingers clutching around the hallow in his hand and eyes flashing. The Dark Lord tried to reign in his anger, to keep a level head, but it was proving to be quite difficult. Especially so when faced with the reality that the girl had dared to destroy, undoubtedly countless, rare artifacts that he had spent the entirety of his life trying to acquire. ‘You can repair them,’ his conscience tried to find reason, to de-escalate and dampen the inferno in his chest. 

‘5 minutes.’ Voldemort passively twirled the wand in his grip, attention turning to the french glass doors and staring into the distance of the perfectly manicured lawn now covered in mounting inches of snow. The sun was weak, hidden behind a solid mass of grey clouds, the air chilled and heavy with the promise of a storm to come. He hoped that Snape had followed through on his orders, that he had done something to ensure the girl would be more pliant, that her temper had been curbed somewhat. After all, it was entirely within the realm of possibility, depending on the state his room was in and her attitude, that she might have something far worse done to her than his hands around her pretty little neck. Dealing with her defiance, with her venomous words, her feral ways, was not something he could bear, not today. He needed her obedience, her willingness to cooperate, a show of fealty from her for tonight. And he was beyond determined to get it.

The tone chimed, signalling the close of the hour, and he stilled the wand in his hand. His head snapped to the clock, eyes glowing with anticipation. Not even a second had passed before he sent a sharp warning through his bond to Severus, harshly indicating his time was up, to remove himself from the room unless he wished to play witness. And, of course, should he stay, to suffer for his unwanted intrusion. The polished leather shoes echoed in their soft clicks, the pace of them hurried, eager, as the heavy oak doors swung open before him. 

* * *

* * *

He had passed Snape on the stairs, gaze impassive and focused ahead, his irritation flaring when the man had sunk into a bow and blocked his path.

“My Lord.”

Crimson eyes dragged themselves over to the posturing potions master, assessing the way he had hesitated in his words, lingering as though there was more to say. The Dark Lord clenched his teeth, not appreciating the stalling and he made sure that the man could feel it through their connection. The resulting wince was enough of a retribution, one that mildly soothed and pacified him.

“I have given the girl a calming draught to soothe her emotional...instability, as instructed,” Severus ventured through the pain, the phantom flames crawling up his arm making him all too aware he was treading on thin ice, on ground that was ready to collapse underneath him. “But might I strongly advise for some caution to be exercised?”

The all too shrewd gaze, the keen voice, the defiance burning in the depths of those black eyes, it made the monster in him stretch its gaping maw. Severus cared for the girl, it seemed, and something dark, something possessive, thrived in his chest at the thought. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed as he straightened his spine, taking one step further up the stairs to tower over the newly-appointed headmaster. His voice turned cold, holding a dangerous edge, willing his magic in the mark to burn brighter, to punish him for speaking out.

“Do not,” he warned, satisfied when the man shrank back slightly, “test me, Severus.”

The Dark Lord withdrew his presence from their link, turning promptly on his heel and leaving behind the startled wizard. He had dared to advise him, to judge him so clearly, to side with a girl over his Lord? He owed his allegiance, his everything, to him, not to some teenager with a pretty face that looked like his school crush. It was enough to make his temper rise, for him to turn around, to exact punishment- ‘Calm yourself,’ the rational side warned as he paused outside of the double doors to his chambers, inhaling and exhaling shakily to reign in it all in.

Then he stepped into the room, his feeble breathing exercises to pacify his anger, to even out his mood, to quiet his thirst for vengeance, failing completely. 

* * *

* * *

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, shock rendering his usually eloquent speech to the most common of curses. 

He took one unsteady step forward, then another, as the doors slammed forcefully shut behind him. Very few things, he liked to think, could leave him mute, dumbfounded, speechless. But seeing his room in a state beyond disrepair, ravaged and overturned, did just that. 

Voldemort scanned the room critically, noting the shredded books, the down feathers coating the floor in a thick carpet, the cracked mantle of the fireplace, the overhead lights shattered in their sockets and- his eyes narrowed seeing his bed. The splintered frame of the four posters, the tattered duvet, the now sizable crater above the headboard where the mounted chains had been ripped away. It appeared nothing had escaped her wrath, the whirlwind of emotions he had felt earlier suddenly making sense, all of it clicking into place that the tumultuous storm was her manifesting it physically. Shock fell to fury, to anger, to a seething rage that she had dared to disrespect his chambers, his personal belongings. Especially so after she had plainly rejected him, called him vile and pathetic. And this was all after the fact he had left on his own admission, had given her space to process, to be alone, thinking she was enough of an adult to not have to be supervised. ‘Apparently, I was wrong,’ his thoughts were dripping in venom and malice. A crunch under his feet drew his attention, a chill ghosting through him as he recognised the handle to a teapot, the very same he had used during their conversation. Yet another way that Harri Potter had spat on his kindness, had encouraged his ire even after his attempts to be civil and courteous.

His fingers curled around the wand of power with such strength, trying to find a physical outlet to relieve some of the tension in his body, that it was almost a wonder it didn’t snap cleanly in two. It was a war being waged in his mind, two truths battling for dominance. One sang to make her pay, to make her understand the consequences of her infantile tantrum, to make her afraid to even step foot into his room ever again. To teach her, as one would a child, the importance of respect, of obedience, of gratitude. The other, however, was crying out for patience, for understanding, to realise that she had been going through emotional turmoil and it was her magic reacting uncontrollably. And Voldemort recognised he needed to draw his strength from the latter, to try to keep collected if he was to earn her trust, coax her into cooperating for what he needed her for. He clenched his jaw, forcing his fingers to ease off the wand before he could be tempted to hex her an inch within her life.

“You have made quite the mess of things, haven’t you, Harri?” he said flatly, a calmness to his words that bespoke of his rising displeasure, narrowed gaze scanning the rubble for where she could possibly have been hiding. 

And, ah--there she was, in one of the still-standing armchairs, auburn crown barely visible from atop its backing. He nudged a piece of plaster out of his way with the toe of his Oxford loafer, feeling a delayed horror at the fact that even the _walls_ would need to be repaired. His eyebrow twitched involuntarily at the task before him. It was a tempting idea to make her clean everything up by hand, lower her to the status of a servant, and make it so that all she would have time to feel was exhaustion. ‘Calm,’ he chanted to himself, a holy mantra, trying to find a balm to his wrath, gaze bouncing about the room in search of some sort of silver lining. 

Voldemort glanced up at the cracks in the ceiling, frowning in distaste that the gaudy chandelier, of all things, had been spared. It truly did look like an obscurus had passed through his chambers, maiming and devouring all in its path, in its rage. It was, begrudgingly, impressive in its own right that she had been able to conjure up such violent bursts of her magic and without a wand at that. A distant note was made, filed away for far, _far_ , into the future when the urge to tear into her flesh wasn’t his most prominent feeling, to look into her aptitude for wandless magic.

“Are you satisfied with yourself and your childish tantrum? For destroying property that isn’t your own?” he questioned coldly, irritation flaring at her lack of response.

The Dark Lord made his way through the room, a symphony of cracks and crunches as the wreckage beneath his feet incurred further damage. His shoe hit something, a hollow sound, that was buried beneath a mountain of feathers and he glanced down in apprehension. 

Laying at his feet, in all of its mangled glory, was a heavy leather tome, worn through the ages and fraying in the corners. His teeth almost cracked from the pressure in which he had clenched them as he slowly, deliberately, reached to pick it up. He would have prayed, if he had believed in gods or a force greater than himself, for it to be unscathed but, seeing the damaged bindings, the yellowed parchment pages ripped cleanly out, it clearly was not. Crimson eyes blinked in thinly veiled horror before snapping back to the auburn head, fury burning bright. He rounded on her, teeth bared in a snarl, hands shooting out to tightly grasp at the chair’s frame by her head and caging her in.

“This was an original,” he seethed, brandishing the shell of the book and tossing it forcefully before her feet. It landed with a dull thud, a testament to how empty it now was--- its pages littering the floor and invaluable words scattered.

“One of the few journals of Salazar Slytherin known to be in existence. It has survived decades, ages, _hundreds of years_ , Harri, without ever being damaged. And yet, in the span of less than an hour, you defiled it. Reduced it to nothing more than rubbish destined for the bin.”

As he took in her wide-eyed stare, Voldemort, reluctantly, had to acknowledge that Snape’s brewing capabilities were phenomenal. The Calming Draught had been working wonders on her, fear, anger, resentment, all of it absent in her too-green gaze. He almost wished it hadn’t been this effective, that she would have fought against him, quarrelled with him, so he could justify lashing out at her, at punishing her. ‘You still could. When has Lord Voldemort ever needed a reason to demand reparations?’ a traitorous voice whispered, stoking the embers of his wrath into fully-fledged flames, urging him to follow through with his desires for vengeance, for justice. His teeth ached, an overwhelming urge to sink them into her jugular, to prise it from the pale column of her throat, to let her bleed out. 

His gaze flitted across her face in search of something else to occupy him before he could give in and do something he would most definitely regret later. Then he finally noticed her hair was still damp and she was still in a bathrobe. Those red eyes dipped down for a second, drinking in the sight of the exposed planes of her collarbones, the dangerously low v-line of the collar, the swell of her chest visible more than usual as an almost indecent amount of cleavage was put on display. Desire--- ravenous, possessive, toxic. It began to unfurl in his chest and rising to battle with his anger.

Voldemort fell into the unoccupied chair, leaning back, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers. He allowed his eyes to close for a second, for a moment of stillness to overcome him, as the Dark Lord tried to gather together his emotions, quell his yearning and sate his temper. ‘Remember why you are here,’ a rational voice whispered, trying to refocus his attention away from the state of his room, from the priceless artifacts destroyed, from the girl sitting barely two feet away from him in nothing more than a bathrobe.

“Sorry,” she mumbled out in a quick apology, unsure what more to say.

Harri watched him as he sat with his eyes closed, his posture rigid and deathly still. She knew she should have felt horror, fear, trepidation at his reaction, at him crowding her space. She knew she should have felt visceral anger and resentment at the fact he had called her a child, that he had the audacity to imply that _she_ messed everything up. But she didn’t. Those feelings never came, her body too relaxed, mind too foggy and at ease to even bother. Her heart rate hadn’t even picked up, she noticed belatedly, and a note was made to ask Snape for some more of his magical calming potion the next time she saw him. It was a wonderful feeling not to be scared, not to feel fear or overwhelming rage for once. Blissful.

After a few minutes, the Dark Lord finally reopened his eyes, having deemed himself put together enough to focus on his task at hand. He took in the girl staring unblinkingly at him and he uncrossed his legs, leaning forward, voice low and quiet, “You always know how to test my patience, don’t you Harri?” 

His hand reached out on its own accord to lightly grasp a strand of damp hair hanging over her chest, rubbing it between his fingers and staring, entranced, as the red hair separated under his administrations, “But I can be forgiving, understanding. So allow me to further extend the vast sea that is my patience when it comes to you by assuring you that I accept the apology.” 

His hand moved upward from her hair to almost tenderly cup her jaw, his touch cold against heated skin. Voldemort guided her head towards him, eyes hooded as light burst forth from their contact. He needed her to feel it, to be taken off guard without her stronger emotions, her anger, putting up a defensive shield against its pull. He had heard it all from Barty that the imperius hadn’t worked on her, and though he would undoubtedly cast one stronger than his follower, he couldn't risk her fighting against it. Not right now.

“I do not want to spend an eternity fighting with you for it is a battle you will surely lose,” his thumb began to stroke absentmindedly along her jawline, pushing more of his magic through the bond.

There was a hunger gnawing between his ribs at the sensation of their souls melding, “And you do not want that either, do you, Harri? Think of how much easier it would be on you if you were just to comply and submit? How much that would please me?”

She blinked owlishly at him, heart beginning to pound erratically as syrup flooded her veins-- a slow and insistent pull. The siren’s call, the coolness from his hand on her jaw, the rising floating pleasure was all she could think about, the effects of the calming draught nullifying in the face of something far more powerful. Something far more enticing. Her eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, the tempting glow consuming her entire world in the moment. ‘Why does it feel so good,’ a distant voice questioned, knowing she should be more than alarmed by whatever he was doing to her. But those worries, the cynicism, were all drowned out as spots of light burst brightly behind her eyes. It, vaguely, reminded her of the haze of imperius--- but she just knew, somehow, it wasn’t. This felt d _ifferent_ , too alluring, too _right_. In any case, she wanted more of whatever it was, the caution of dealing with a Dark Lord long forgotten.

He felt immense satisfaction, a great deal of delight, when she had closed her eyes and leaned further into his hand. While he, admittedly, felt the pull too, it was easier to mask it, to shield against it with his occlumency and to fortify himself. Every shred of his attention was focused on his one task--all he needed was for her to agree to tonight, to show up and act according to his commands. 

"Don’t you wish to please me?”

More magic pushed through their bond and he smirked at the way she gave a minute nod of her head, lost in the crescendo of it, in the unrelenting waves of a pleasure only he could give.

“All I need from you tonight, Harri, is to follow my explicit instructions. Follow my orders and I promise you that you will be rewarded. Perhaps a reunion with someone you have missed so dearly is in order?”

He dropped his hand from its caress, watching intently as her eyes fluttered back open, a dazed stupor in them once she realised the golden light, the buoyancy, had stopped. Crimson eyes obsessively took in the way her lips had parted, her eyebrows knitted together in confused desperation to regain back the high she had just lost. ‘Perfect,’ he thought, rather content. If he was slowly turning into an addict for her, she might as well mimic him and become one herself--- to fall into the depths of depravity and desolation right alongside him.

“What?” she questioned dimly, mind trying to play catch up to his words and figure out what he was asking of her.

It was proving to be a difficult task, her thoughts sluggish and unable to focus no matter how hard she tried. _‘Fight it,’_ whispered a small part of her as the potion Snape had given her began to evaporate in her system. Harri straightened her spine, frowning, bits of his request finally processing.

His hand shot out at the first signs of resistance, a gentle yet unrelenting hold on her wrist. It appeared that he needed an extra push, something else to encourage her in the right direction. Voldemort’s thumb pressed down insistently on her pulse point, at the softness of her wrist, languid and slow circles rubbing across her veins. She began to melt again, her momentary revolt against their bond ceasing.

Voldemort's voice dropped to an almost intimate whisper, his own eyes glazing over in reminiscence, “I skinned a man alive today, you know. He suffered quite a bit because of you and your words. You challenged me when you called me pathetic, when you tried to impose limits onto me. So I peeled the skin from his body. Kept him alive and just out of death’s reach until I deemed it fit for him to sink into the void. Tell me, Harri, does that sound like something a man with limits could do? Find a way to even cheat death, to taunt him and keep him from his pound of flesh?” 

Harri _knew_ she should have been horrified, should have found it ghastly and gruesome. Entirely disturbing. He had just admitted to torturing a man to death, to killing him because of her taunts--- yet all she could focus on was that insistent, alluring tug somewhere deep inside of her. The light, the floating sensation, the warm heat coursing throughout her limbs. It made his words fall away, made them seem so distant and inconsequential. He may have been conversing about the weather or a good book he had recently read for all she knew or cared. 

“He paid the price in the end for your insolence. I may have given my word not to personally harm those you care for,” Voldemort threatened, a cutting smile on his features as her head slumped forward, eyes closed once again, and increasing the pressure of his hold on her wrist.

“But I have made no promises of accountability for the actions of my hounds. They have recently developed a taste for human flesh, you see, that even I find hard to reign in at times.”

He jerked her forwards suddenly so she half-tumbled onto his lap, his free hand reaching up to tilt her head back up to him. The Dark Lord drank in her half-lidded gaze, those blown pupils, the wet shine of her lips--- that poisonous desire came flooding back in tenfold. With a soft tsk of mock sympathy, as though empathetic to her struggles and feelings of disorientation, the hand lifted to tenderly tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. He leaned forward to whisper against the auburn tresses, lips ghosting against the ear’s shell, and taking immense delight in the way she had shivered at the contact. A soft whimper had escaped her--- a dulcet melody to his ears. 

“Just remember, little one, that you can not protect them all. Think of how many countless strangers will die at your behest, cursing your name upon their lips in their final breaths.”

Voldemort rose abruptly, dropping his hold from her and watching in perverse, twisted gratification as she fell to her hands and knees on the floor. Glowing eyes glittered taking in her flushed face, at the overstimulation that caused her to shake--- he could practically hear the erratic tempo of her heart beating against its cage. Seeing her before him in such a vulnerable position, trembling in the aftermath of their bond, only served to further encourage the twisting serpent in his chest. His anger was long forgotten at the sight of the defiant Girl-Who-Lived bowing. It was doing terrible things for his self-control and his conscience was demanding that he remember their position, what he was here to achieve--- that he wanted her _cooperation_ and not to do anything irreversible that might cost him it.

With difficulty, he managed to keep his voice even, calm, as he trained an inscrutable gaze on her dipped head, “Narcissa will arrive later to help dress you. _Do_ _not_ disappoint me tonight, Harri Potter.”

He disapparated from the room to leave her to process his words and warnings, tremors wracking her thin frame in withdrawal from the hazing pleasure of their bond.


	31. She Was No Longer 'Harri Potter'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here is the next chapter! The chapter after this will be up in an hour or so once I get the chance to give it a quick read through <3
> 
> As always, you are all amazing and such kind readers! Thank you for all of the comments on the last chapter, it made my day! Thank you and I hope you enjoy <3

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She had remained on her hands and knees for a few minutes after he had left, unable to think, to move. Her mind was reeling, her body trembling in the aftermath of whatever he had done to her, unable to fully process it. Some part of her buried deep within screamed for him to come back, to give her that glow, that light, that buoyancy, to make her feel whole again. Harri realised, in rising terror and alarm, that she felt suddenly lost, adrift-- like she had been cut off from oxygen itself and was left to gasp in air that did very little for her. The lovely bliss, the quiet reprieve, from the calming draught had entirely evaporated from her system, leaving behind cold panic in its stead. ‘He skinned someone alive,’ she thought desperately, acid rising in her throat, ‘because of what _I_ said, he killed someone to prove a point.’ 

Harri shakily rose to her feet, fleeing to the bathroom as images of a man being peeled as though he were an apple, a grape, flooded her mind. She had barely made it in time, her knees colliding with the marble floor painfully as she clutched at the sides of the chilled porcelain of the toilet before promptly retching into it. She stayed there for a second, hovering as hyperventilating sobs, breaths too quick and too rapid, racked her frame. He had been so casual about it, as though it hadn’t been a big deal that he had just ended someone’s life-- as though he hadn’t enacted such gruesome brutality upon another human. With a bitterness in her mouth, she flushed the evidence of her weakness, of her inability to handle such degrees of violence, down the drain. 

A few seconds passed before she found the strength to stand, taking staggered steps to the sink and cupping her hands under the cool spray. The water on her face felt refreshing, a soothing balm, as she attempted to gather her thoughts, to process and figure out what to do. When she lifted her gaze, she almost didn’t recognise the girl staring back at her. It was her face, no denying that, but the look on it, the dilated pupils showcasing a darkness against a ring of emerald, the flush on her cheeks turning her cream skin a rosy shade, the wet shine on her rosebud mouth. Whoever this girl was, it was _not_ Harri Potter. She couldn’t recall ever looking this dishevelled, this depraved, this indecent-- truthfully, it scared her. A chill passed over her skin, leaving a wake of goosebumps, as she tore her eyes away from obsessively staring into the mirror. Whatever he had done to her was an issue that could be pushed aside, could be reflected on at a later date as something more pressing required her full attention. 

‘He threatened them,’ she thought dimly, overriding panic clawing its way up her chest, past her throat. ‘He promised he wouldn’t touch them but he never said anything about his followers.’ Snape’s words came back to her, echoing hauntingly in her mind, claiming that they were all hostages to his whims, playing in a game they could not win. And how right he was. She screamed in frustration, squeezing her eyes shut at the tears that threatened to overflow. He had played the board well, almost too well, trapping her in a corner without an exit strategy and targeting all of her weaknesses. Her friends, her saviour complex by holding strangers prisoner, her need to save everyone. She wrenched the faucet’s handle to the side forcefully, the soft stream of water ceasing and returning the bathroom to silence. 

Harri balanced herself on her hands, head bowed and staring down into the intricate bowl of the sink. He said tonight, he wanted her to obey him tonight. She frowned, heart pounding against her ribs, her knees feeling weak. ‘Tonight, what’s tonight,’ her thoughts were lit with panic, replaying over the conversation that she, admittedly, only half heard. ‘He never said, just that Narcissa is going to help me get ready.’ The thought made her stomach clench, the fact she was unprepared doing little to quell her nerves. She threw her head back to stare up at the ceiling, mind a muddled mess and jumping too rapidly from one thought to another. He mentioned a reunion if she followed his orders but with who? What would happen if she didn’t listen tonight? Why did she feel that way? Why did she crave for him to touch her again? How did he-

A resounding pop from the bedroom broke her out of her reverie and she nearly jumped out of her skin at the unexpected sound. Her fingers scrabbled along the smooth marble counter, curling inwards to form a fist, as her ears strained for any telling sign of who had just appeared unannounced. She tentatively, slowly, moved from the sink and pressed herself up against the bathroom door, ear flat against it in desperation to listen in. ‘Narcissa maybe? That doesn’t make sense though.’ He had said the Malfoy matriarch would come by later so she assumed that he had meant in at least a few hours time, not mere minutes. Plus, it wouldn’t make sense for her to apparate within the halls of her own home. ‘Maybe he forgot something?’ was her next, most rational guess. Hearing the rummaging about the room, it seemed entirely within the realm of possibility. Harri flung the door open, ready to confront him, to demand what he was planning and how he could expect her to behave how he wanted her to without any indication of what that would entail.

To her immense surprise, it was not the Malfoy matriarch nor the Dark Lord that had appeared in the wreckage of the bedroom but a purple-eyed house elf holding a broom far bigger than its tiny body. They both stared at one another in shock, apparently neither expecting the other.

“Zivvy!” Harri recovered first, cautiously edging her way over to the creature, attention focused on avoiding any remnants of glass or errant shards of porcelain littering the floor. 

“Miss Potter,” was the enthusiastic reply, ears fluttering in excitement at seeing the witch, broom forgotten in its hands, “Zivvy is summoned to clean the room, Miss.” 

A dangerous thought came to Harri’s mind as she stared down at the elf, at how keen it was to see her, at how it seemed so willing to be of help, of use. An insistent line of thinking planted itself firmly into her conscience. It urged her to find a way out, that staying here with a man who so readily tortured others, who so readily exacted the same violence onto her, who had this strange control that rendered her too compliant for her preferences, was madness. It was reckless, a notion made with abandon, but it refused to leave her nonetheless. Flashes of her plan during the Hogwarts raid to lead Voldemort away from the castle, the success in it as she drew him into the woods, replayed on an obsessive loop. Maybe she could do it again, on a grander scale, maybe she could preoccupy him long enough to draw his attention away so she could- 

‘It’s a stupid idea,’ logic reprimanded her, chastising her for even considering it. Voldemort had already proven that he had no qualms about torturing strangers in her stead, warning her that she couldn’t save everyone, that she was already testing the limits of his patience. Frustration welled up in her at the thought, at the realisation that she was trapped, entangled in his web with no way out. But maybe if she could get word to the Order, to have them rally their forces? Even if she couldn’t leave herself, at least not right away, they could begin to oppose him in earnest if they knew where she was. 

“Zivvy,” she started slowly, crouching down to eye level with the creature, voice lowered to a conspiratorial, desperate whisper, “Can you do me a favour?”

She smiled when the creature nodded enthusiastically, brightness in its eyes and an eagerness in its step, “When you are done and have some free time, I need you to get a message to someone for me. Sirius Black. Tell him that I’m here at Malfoy Manor. You can do that, right? Find him?”

The house elf eyed her critically before giving a firm nod of its head, chest puffed up in pride, “Of course, Miss. Zivvy is a house elf, Zivvy can do anything Miss requires.”

Harri straightened, hope filling her as a warmth in her chest. She had, briefly, debated about instructing the creature to find Dumbledore, seeing as he could gather together the Order more quickly, had more sway over its members, was the one that could match Voldemort in power. But after the Astronomy Tower incident, she wasn’t exactly too keen on the idea. After all, if she had to hazard an informed guess, he knew what she was, what she meant to the Dark Lord, and had no qualms about cutting her down. But she needed someone unaware, someone who, hopefully, still felt a shred of loyalty towards her, someone who could encourage people to fight for what was right.

Her stomach clenched painfully at the thought of lying to Sirius, at concealing something so crucial from him, but then she was bitterly reminded that he had lied to her too. He had promised to visit her during the summer, to rescue her from the Dursleys, to save her from their cruelty and hatred. Her fingers bit half-moons into the softness of her palms, trying to swallow around the sudden lump in her throat and the heaviness in her chest. Her godfather, the one who was meant to protect her, love her, had bared his throat, his belly, so quickly under Dumbledore’s insistence, had gone along with the headmaster’s plans without a blink of an eye when she could have lived with him, stayed with- 

“Oh, Zivvy almost forgot!”

The sudden exclamation drew her from her thoughts. Harri blinked in surprise as a breakfast tray appeared in front of her, an assortment of pastries, fruits, and oatmeals littering the metal surface. She would be lying if she said she was hungry, food the last thing she wanted at the moment, especially so when the image of a skinned man, his muscles and sinew exposed, hovered threateningly in the back of her mind. But seeing the house-elf’s insistence, at the gestures it made towards the dishes presented so beautifully on silver platters, she couldn’t find it in herself to say no. Harri absentmindedly picked up an apple, a gorgeous shade of red streaked through with pink, and bit into it. It tasted like ash in her mouth.

“By the way Zivvy, did you ever find Draco?” she casually inquired, worried for a second that maybe she had been wrong, that the Slytherin boy wasn’t in the Manor like she had initially thought. That, perhaps, Voldemort knew of their friendly terms and had banished him in attempts to cut off her potential allies. Or, heaven forbid, he did something even worse. 

“I did, Miss,” the elf responded, wincing as though ashamed by its failure. It held up its bandaged fingers in a show of apology, tears flooding its eyes when the witch exclaimed in horror, demanding to know what it had done to itself, “But Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy refused to let him come.”

Harri tried her best to comfort the distraught elf, feeling nauseous at the fact it had so willingly harmed itself for not being able to fulfill such a simple request made in passing. A frown painted her features as she idly patted the creature on its back, its hiccuping sobs fading into the distance as her mind mulled over its words. ‘So Draco is here,’ her thoughts began to whirl at the implications of it, of what it could mean. Voldemort had yet to do anything to the Slytherin boy which made her think that he, hopefully, was unaware of their bond, their friendship. It was either that or he was holding onto the pureblood for safekeeping, to dangle him in front of her, to threaten his well being if the convenient need for it ever arose. 

A fierce protectiveness blossomed in her at the thought, a silent vow being made in the moment that she wouldn’t allow the Dark Lord to lay so much as a finger on his blond head. A shaky sigh escaped her, the bitter taste of disappointment in her mouth offset by reluctant understanding. It made sense as to why his parents were encouraging distance between them, she couldn’t blame them for it. After all, allowing their son to get close to a girl whose future was murky at best, one who was at the mercies and whims of a Dark Lord, was a terrible, dangerous idea and she couldn’t begrudge them for being decent parents.

A few minutes later had found the elf calmed down enough to begin the long task of cleaning the chambers. Harri watched in thinly-veiled fascination as the room began to slowly knit itself back together under the careful administrations of the creature’s magic. Her eyes tracked as bits of plaster rose from the ground, carefully slotting themselves back into their original places on the walls, the ceilings, and seamlessly blending together to appear as though they had never been damaged in the first place. A sharp crack from the corner and the bed’s wooden frame was made whole again. 

“Bloody brilliant,” Harri muttered under her breath, unsure as to why he was so mad in the first place when it all seemed like an easy fix. Then she noticed the elf gathering up pieces of parchment off the floor, biting into her ashen apple and swallowing it with some difficulty. It seemed her body was intent on rejecting food and she couldn’t fault it for not wanting to eat. 

“Are you not going to fix those?” she asked in a curious manner, gesturing to the papers with the half-bitten apple in her hand.

“No, I can not. Even Zivvy has limits. Only the Dark Lord can fix it,” the elf nodded sagely, depositing the papers onto the newly fixed desk.

An eyebrow quirked in confusion before she, distantly, recalled Voldemort’s words of parsel and normal magic acting as though they were oil and water. Her eyes keenly took in the destroyed book, clicking into place that Slytherin must have embedded it with his own brand of magic to keep those outside of his bloodline from having access. Harri groaned a bit at that, the Dark Lord’s anger over the shredded tome making sense. Still, she couldn’t help the vindictive delight from spreading through her at the thought that he would have to spend time fixing it himself, that there was at least one thing that couldn’t be magicked away into being repaired. ‘Good,’ she thought with a cutting smile, ‘at least I made his life a bit harder, the sadistic prick.’

From somewhere in the manor, a grandfather clock chimed, a sharp, thunderous sound that demanded attention. Harri had taken to sitting on the now fixed mattress, ears straining as she counted the bells. ‘5 pm,’ she noted dimly, apple long forgotten and sitting abandoned on the serving tray. She looked down at herself, still in the bathrobe but her hair dried, puzzling over what was meant to happen tonight, how he wanted her to act, when Narcissa would arrive-

Not even a minute after the last chime had fallen way to silence was there a sharp rap on the door, the sound magnified in the stillness, in the quiet, of the room. It swung open to reveal a blonde-haired woman, tall with pointed features, blue eyes carefully blank as she crossed the threshold.

“Pardon the intrusion,” her voice was calm, clipped with a posh accent, “But I have been summoned by My Lord to help you dress for the evening.”

* * *

* * *

Harri had come to the conclusion that Narcissa Malfoy, despite the cold expression and the grim line of her mouth, was quite a gentle person. She knew it from the way those shapely hands had delicately steered her towards the bathroom, the demure pressure in which they had guided her to sit down at the vanity, the considerate manner in which they had pulled a boar bristle brush through her hair, mindful of any tangles. And as she trained her eyes obsessively on the Malfoy matriarch in the surface of the mirror, taking in the elegant blonde curls cascading down her neck and the ruby red staining her plush lips, she couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out why she had pledged herself to the Dark Lord.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” she ventured tentatively, watching as those hands stilled in her hair, those pale eyes lifting up to evenly meet the reflection of green ones. 

She had so many questions to ask, to demand to know what was happening, to beg her to tell her what Voldemort had said, how she was expected to act tonight. Instead, she settled for a rather simple one, “How is Draco?”

Narcissa set the brush down on the vanity, staring at the earnest look in those emerald eyes, a gaze that appeared as though the killing curse was immortalized in a midcast when you met them. She could see why Draco had taken a fancy to the girl. She was, after all, quite a beautiful little thing that would have given even Lily Potter a run for her money. 

“Draco is well,” she responded hesitantly, trying to understand where the girl stood in regards to her son, to discern any deceit, any ill will. At the small exhale of relief she gave, however, and the way her shoulders seem to lose tension, Narcissa was satisfied that there was none. 

“He had wanted to come, you know. That day you asked for him,” with a flourish of her wand, she began to curl some of the fiery locks of red hair.

Harri let out a shaky laugh, flashing the older woman an uneasy smile, “But you wouldn’t let him?”

She nodded quickly, auburn hair flying, as she rushed to say, “I don’t blame you, of course, for not wanting him to be around me. Not with Voldemort hanging about.”

The Malfoy matriarch flinched at the casual usage of the Dark Lord’s name, feeling ill at ease at how she so bravely, so calmly, had said it. And, not for the first time since the girl was brought back alive, she found herself puzzling over as to what the Potter heiress had meant to her Lord, why he had so suddenly changed his mind about ending her existence. She began to pile the hair into an intricate bun, fingers working deftly to twist and braid the strands.

“He talked, _talks_ I mean, often about you,” she finally said when the silence became too much, reaching over the girl’s thin shoulders for a hairpin, “Always regaling me with stories from your time at Hogwarts. Particularly about your quidditch matches.”

Harri, for the oddest reason, felt relieved when she spoke again, afraid to offend the pureblooded woman. She wasn’t sure why that was but, as those fingers worked nimbly in her hair to create some elaborate hairstyle she knew she could never replicate, as her soft voice held a playful and wistful tone, she just knew she never wanted her to leave.

The redhead sent an impish smile to the woman in the mirror, her own voice a tad cheeky, “Oh, I’m sure he did. Even after you bought his entire team the new Nimbuses, he still couldn’t manage to catch the snitch before me.”

A small smile tugged on Narcissa's painted lips as she recalled visions of a young Draco coming home for the holidays, ranting and raving about how Harri Potter had bested him once again, demanding for his father to find some way to remove her from the quidditch team.

“Oh, please do not begrudge me for that. A mother is allowed to spoil her only son. Though, just between you and I,” she leaned down closer, a mischievous glint entering her eyes, “His father and I had not heard the end of it for weeks afterwards. It was almost insufferable. He even begged Lucius to remove you from the quidditch team altogether.”

The younger witch stared in the mirror, astonished by the confiding way Narcissa had let it slip about her son’s childish reaction, and a bubble of joy rose in her chest. She couldn’t help the free laughter, good-natured and without a care, at the thought of Draco being that upset with her over something so trivial.

A wide smile, beaming and bright, spread on her face, her voice holding a tone of fondness to it, “He always hated losing, didn’t he?”

Narcissa reached forward to tug a few loosely curled strands from the intricate braided bun, letting them fall in front of the girl’s heart-shaped face in a framing curtain.

“Especially so to you,” she muttered, twirling the vanity’s chair around as she began to rummage through the makeup caddy, “Even after getting him the best tutor we could find, you still managed to hold onto your spot in Defense class. It drove him absolutely mad. Personally, I was always a Potions or Charms sort of girl.”

A comfortable silence fell between them as the blonde witch began to paint her lips in a darker shade of red, eyes slightly narrowed in concentration on the task at hand. It felt sticky, heavy, an uncomfortable sensation that she was unaccustomed to. Without Narcissa’s words to distract her, without the reminiscences of the past, an uncomfortable weight began to form in her chest, an ever-mounting sense of impending doom making her heart skip.

Once the brush left her mouth, Harri gathered together her scraps of courage to ask, voice timid, unsure, “What did he say about tonight, Mrs. Malfoy? About me?” 

Narcissa paused, a makeup puff in her hand, as she took in the Potter heiress. She suddenly seemed so small, so quiet, not at all the defiant and rash girl her son had always painted her as. It was an uncomfortable sensation, one that made her feel ill, her heart to squeeze tightly, her blood to run cold. The “Girl-Who-Lived” was precisely just that, a _girl_ , a child, forced into a war she should never have been expected to participate in in the first place. Draco, being marked and in agony, came to her mind and a fierce rage, one that made her want exact violence in the name of justice, unfurled in her. Fate was truly a laughable thing, having abandoned them all, depositing them at the feet of a man with too much power, forced to abide by his whims and mercurial temper. 

The Malfoy head busied herself with covering up the bruising circles under the girl’s eyes, unsure how to even respond in the first place. He hadn’t, in fact, said much about tonight. Other than being told she was to dress the girl and bring to the dining parlour by 7 pm, his instructions had been pretty vague. A ghost of a chill passed through her frame, her mind suddenly conjuring up images of crimson eyes nearly glowing in hunger, a frenzied desire, when he had dictated his wishes for her.

“He wouldn’t say but,” Narcissa swallowed at the way her throat constricted, conflict warring in her at the fact she was to hand over a girl a mere month younger than her son to the Devil himself, torn between wanting to please him for the sake of her family but also wanting to hide this child away from his gaze, “He only commanded that I make you look respectable, pureblooded. As though you were royalty.” 

Distantly, Harri remembered the pleasure from his touches, the heated syrup in her veins, how all she wanted was for him to never let her go. Images of her expression, one she didn’t recognise, depraved and craving something that she had no words for, his innocent question asking if she wanted to please him, the vaguest notion that she had nodded in compliance. Her stomach clenched painfully, a sharp sting and acid in her mouth. She was suddenly grateful that she hadn’t eaten more than an apple. 

* * *

* * *

An hour later had her staring numbly at herself in the dressing room’s mirror, unable to comprehend the girl in the reflection. Harri felt as though she were hovering outside of her body, suddenly feeling like she was an imposter, an unwanted presence, an intruder in someone else’s shell. Narcissa had done a rather commendable job, one that made Lavender’s efforts for the Hufflepuff party look like child’s play. Kohl lined her eyes, lending their green a vividness that made them almost glow. Harri thought, dimly, they were uncomfortable to look at, unnerved when she held her own gaze for a second too long in the reflection. Her auburn hair had been pulled into an intricate up-do, braids twisting the hair off of her neck to highlight the elegant slope of it, a pale column of throat that, vaguely, reminded her of a Victorian cameo. A few strands had been left out to frame her heart-shaped face, further defining the gentle angles of her jawline, drawing attention to the high cheekbones. The red tackiness on her lips had finally dried down to a matte finish and, much to her joy, she could no longer feel it so intensely. Somehow, the wine colour accentuated her cupids bow further, lending her rosebud mouth a plumpness, a fullness that she had never noticed before.

But it was the dress that she was wearing that she couldn’t take her eyes off from. It was a tight, floor-length affair, slick and clinging to her as though it were a second skin. Despite the high neck and the long sleeves, Harri, to her horror, felt naked, exposed. The material emphasized her soft curves, the roundness in her hips, the nip of her waist, the swell of her chest, in a way she didn’t even realise was possible. Her entire life, she had always thought her body to be too thin, too waifish, too boylike, to have any true merit as a female but now? Now she was proven horribly wrong and she _hated_ it. Even though no skin was truly showing, the entire ensemble was rather modest in that regard, she felt indecent, impudent, improper. It hadn’t escaped her notice, either, that the fabric of the dress, a heavy black velvet, shimmered in the light with a pattern of scales, moving as she did and drawing further unwanted attention. She had transcended, shifted across all boundaries from a girl to a woman to a snake in a human skin. 

Harri’s only reprieve was that there was a black cape trailing on the ground behind her, a flowy fabric that glittered with magic to mimic the stars. She grasped at it desperately to cover herself, to shield her body from being put on display, from having her curves so fully exposed. Narcissa had just finished pinning the edges of the cloak to her, a gleaming silver medallion of a serpent eating its own tail shining proudly at her throat. ‘I have to give it to him,’ she thought in abashed horror, gripping the cloak to her frame before Narcissa, sympathetically, batted her hands away, ‘He’s really outdone himself.’

Indeed, the person in the mirror was not Harri Potter any longer, the Girl-Who-Lived, daughter to Lily and James Potter. She was royalty descended from the pits of Hell, a child born forth from Lilith’s womb, a goddess who had left behind her snake skin to play amongst the mortals for the night. The clock chimed 7 and Narcissa entered the mirror’s frame, worry bright in her gaze and a grim smile that had morphed into a full-fledged frown.

“Come, child,” her hand, Harri noticed as it landed on her shoulder, was cold, trembling, “It is time to go.” 


	32. The Meeting

* * *

* * *

The two women had paused outside of the grand double oak doors of the dining room parlour, one fair where the other was not. Narcissa sent the girl at her side a small reassuring smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes and one that she, most certainly, herself did not believe in. As the entrances to the room swung open, the Malfoy matriarch gave the redheaded witch one last reassuring squeeze on her shoulder before tilting her head up, pulling back her shoulders and walking confidently into the silence of the room.

One of the first things Harri had noticed, as she loitered at the room’s threshold, not willing to cross over quite yet, was that an eerie silence had greeted her. Apparently, no one had dared to speak until the women could arrive. The second, much to her rising distress, was that were, she counted quickly in her mind, 28--29 including the Dark Lord--people seated at the long walnut table in the centre of the parlour. In unison, their eyes immediately trained themselves on her with looks that she desperately didn’t want to decipher, to decode. She allowed her gaze to helplessly wander over towards Voldemort, looking for answers, for a sign. However, what greeted her made her stomach flip in an alarming way. 

Ravenous hunger, rapturous greed, possessive desire-- they all lent those crimson eyes a sinful glow, and Harri, for the millionth time since putting on the godforsaken dress, wished desperately for the comfort of her black jumper with a hole in its arm. As her hand reached for the safety of Narcissa, she realised, in delayed horror, that the older woman had left her alone in the doorway. Instead, she was now occupying an empty seat next to her husband and--. 

‘Draco,’ she thought in temporary joy, for a moment forgetting her mortification, her uncertainty, as she happily tore her gaze away from the monster at the head of the table. The Slytherin boy seemed shaken by her sudden appearance, eyes blown wide in shock, and Narcissa grasped his hand in a tight squeeze.

Voldemort would be lying if he had denied that, in passing, he had pictured her more than once in that dress. But seeing the actual thing before him was proving to be far, _far_ , better than a daydream, than what his imagination could ever have conjured up. It looked to be almost painted on her, as though it were part of her skin, the way it clung to her frame in all the right places-- highlighting what she usually hid behind bulky sweaters. A possessive thought crossed his mind that he should have, perhaps, picked something else out, to make it so that only he could see her in this light. She looked, by all rights, as though she were a goddess, royalty, deserving of her lineages and pedigrees. It was perfect, glorious, a vision finally worthy of standing next to him, to be forever cemented at his side. Crimson eyes flitted over her displayed curves, the column of her exposed throat, his personal insignia gleaming at its hollow-- the plush mouth parted in confusion, the look of being adrift in her eyes as she desperately searched his for an answer. It was heady, alluring, tempting, and doing quite terrible things for his self-control. Outwardly, he tried to show no reaction as he fought the urge to stand up, to grab her by the waist and drag her over to the spot at his side, to pull her onto his lap and claim her as his own before his court. 

Then she looked over to the youngest Malfoy, removing her gaze from him, the beast in his chest baring its fangs at being ignored. The possessiveness, the covetous jealousy that sang from him to retrain her attention back to him, to make it so that her eyes would never wander again, rose to a surmounting wave. His finger tapped once, then twice, as those seated at the table refused to move, to breath, their gazes jumping anxiously between him and the girl in anticipation of what he would do.

“Harri Potter,” he drawled just loud enough for his voice to carry.

A surge of satisfaction in his chest when she had jolted slightly from the break in the silence, contentment soon following when she refocused her lost gaze back to him. 

“I see that you have finally joined us. Come in,” he motioned with the crook of his finger and the doors slammed shut behind her, trapping her in the proverbial den of snakes.

Harri jerkily moved further into the room, feet unsteady and hands curled into fists at her side, imperceptibly trembling. Her shoes clicked almost unnervingly loud across the marble, a disturbing realisation overcoming her that she was out of her element here, dressed in too confining and too revealing clothes, without a wand at her side, and no allies that would be able to openly defend her should she need it. The cape had been catching the still air behind her, drifting away from her body to reveal even more of the snakeskin dress and she sorely wished it was made of something heavier, something less flimsy, that would at least give her an illusion of protection. 

She fixed her stare determinedly at a spot above Voldemort’s head, directly at the mantelpiece. She dared not to make eye contact with him again for fear of seeing the depraved darkness in his gaze, but also was not brave enough to look at the members seated at the table. Try as she did to ignore it, she could feel the leers, the questioning looks, how some seemed particularly shameless and immoral for looking at an underage girl in that way. The eyes settled heavily over her skin, making it crawl, making it itch. Even if she was a few months away from reaching her magical majority, it was still corrupt, degenerate, that older men were even daring to consider her in that regard. ‘So this is his crowd,’ she thought bitterly, feeling mortified but not even the least bit surprised that it was the most deviant that were following him. 

She paused a few feet away from his still form on his throne, stopping behind the familiar back of Severus Snape. He had been looking forward the entire time, resolutely not catching her eye once since she walked in, but she still felt a calmness wash over her that he was there. A small part of her hoped that, desperately, he would be on her side, defending her should anything go awry. It was futile, most likely, but it still consoled her a bit. There was an empty seat at Voldemort’s left but Harri was unsure whether or not to take it, whether or not she would be sitting or standing for whatever little charade he had planned. Shakily exhaling, trying to gain back some of her nerves, her famed Gryffindor bravery, to feel a tad less out of her element, she looked to the red-eyed man in question, trying to decipher what he wanted or intended. 

Voldemort had been obsessively tracking her movements as she crossed the expanse of the room, eyeing appreciatively at how the cloak had fluttered behind her. He made a note to thank Narcissa for the idea, that it truly did sell the untouchable royalty image, the raw power he had been angling for her. After all, his hounds may adore and bow to him, but he needed them to do the same for her-- to fear her as much as they would him. It wouldn’t be enough if he had just claimed her verbally. No, she needed to fashion a new persona for herself, to carve out her own spot in his ranks. It was a simple truth that Voldemort had been in this game long enough to know that his Death Eaters tended to respect power, pure blood, and lineage more than anything else. It may take time, Merlin only knows she was a feral little creature, but time was all they had at this point. 

He steepled his fingers as she paused in her path, disdain rising in him once he noticed that she had stopped at Severus’s side. It was becoming more and more apparent that they had some sort of bond, a relationship he couldn’t quite understand-- and it was irking him, causing him endless displeasure. He couldn’t wait to cleanly snap it in two, disband it, the very second he was able to.

A single eyebrow quirked, his irritation colouring his voice, “Well, Miss Potter? Are you going to stand there all night or are you going to take a seat? By all means, remain standing if that is what you prefer and I can gladly abide by it. After all, your comfort is of _utmost_ importance. But please, do make up your mind fairly quickly as we have some urgent matters to discuss before the night is up.” 

A mortified blush spread across her cheeks at the random snickers that fell in waves across the table, his followers apparently only having the spine to mock her when he allowed it first. The chair to his left, slightly more ornate and delicately carved than the others, slid out from its tucked in place and she tried to, gracefully, sit down. However, the tightness of her dress had proven to give her some difficulty and she ended up nearly stumbling instead. A soft moan of pain escaped her as the chair was abruptly pulled back in, her ribs hitting not so kindly on the table’s edge in a jostling motion. More snickers, soft mean-spirited chuckles, arose at her expense and Harri wished nothing more than for the ground to open up, to swallow her whole.

“Now that Miss Potter has so graciously made up her mind as to her seating preference, we can finally begin.”

She drowned out his words, his reports, letting her eyes wander across the table instead. Some of the gazes she met were cruel, lascivious, others were impassive, carefully blank. She recognised, across from her, the dark-haired witch from Hogwarts, two nearly identical black haired wizards sitting at her side. Harri tried to puzzle out which one had cursed her, unable to determine any significant differences between them. Placed further down was a sandy-haired young man, his eyes wild with demented awe as they fixed intently on the Dark Lord at the head of the table. ‘Fake Moody,’ her eyes widened in surprise at seeing him. There was half the mind to lean over to the wizard seated next to her, who he was she had no idea, to demand the impersonator’s identity so she could seek vengeance-- question him relentlessly as to where the real Moody was hidden.

Then the heavy weight of an insistent stare forced her attention down to the end of the table, stomach tightening at the sight of a beast-like man. His nose was broad, his long hair scraggly, eyes an unnatural shade of grey. He trained them on her, a lustful greed reflected brightly as he dragged his gaze down once then back up in a slow, purposeful manner. Harri felt her blood run cold as he smiled at her, yellowed teeth and sharp fangs, a suggestiveness in it telling her all she needed to know about what he was thinking. 

“And now onto the most important docket for this evening, the true reason why I have summoned you all here.”

Harri’s spine went ramrod straight as the Dark Lord addressed the room, heart threatening to burst free from the cage of her ribs as her attention forced itself, unwillingly, back to him.

He spared her a quick glance, face schooled into a neutral expression, impassive that gave away nothing, before looking back to his followers, “The issue of what to do with Harri Potter, the Girl-Who-Lived.”

The witch with a mass of dark curls leaned forward eagerly, black eyes flitting briefly to Harri, a bloodthirsty violence in them, before bouncing back to Voldemort-- adoration quickly warmed that gaze of hers. ‘She likes him,’ she thought dumbfounded, making a mental note to avoid her entirely. Someone who had actually looked at a Dark Lord that way, as though they would give anything in the world to kiss his feet, the hems of his robe, had to have something missing mentally. ‘But can you blame her for her attraction?’ The biggest betrayal, a traitorous shock, had come from her own mind as she thought back to her reflection after Voldemort had left her in the bedroom, dealing with tremors and shakes from whatever he had done to her.

“My Lord,” a gravelly voice sounded from the end of the table.

There was an eagerness to the tone that filled Harri with trepidation and the strangest urge to flee.

Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one who was surprised that he had spoken, several Death Eaters around her going rigid at the interruption. The bearded man, the beast-like one, from earlier had spoken, a fanatic look in his eyes as he stood from the table to tower over the seated wizards. She noticed his leather trench coat was tattered and worn, his shirt ripped and stained as though he were living in the wild and not a proper home. It was refreshing, in the most jarring of ways, to see someone who hadn’t gotten so dressed up to be in Lord Voldemort’s presence and she found herself bitterly wishing that, if he could show up looking like that, then why couldn’t she show up in pants? He leaned forward placing clawed nails on the wood, dirty and sharply pointed, as he fixed his fervid gaze to the head of the table. 

“Might I request that you give the Potter girl to me? My pack suffered in the last raid and more members would help to strengthen it,” his gaze bounced to her, glinting as though he was already visualising biting into her neck. 

‘A werewolf,’ she thought in dim horror, mouth falling open slightly in shock as she turned in her chair to stare unabashedly at the Dark Lord, ‘He has the werewolves on his side.’ Then it sunk in as to what the feral looking wizard was asking, requesting, from his Lord, of what he wanted from her-- a repulsed shudder coursed through her, bile in the back of her throat. Judging by the way several members at the table had looks of disdain, of distaste, on their faces, it was clear she wasn’t the only one to feel revolted. But it only appeared that 3 members truly felt horror _for_ her, overly concerned at the prospect. Narcissa had gone several shades too pale, Draco looked like he was close to fainting and Snape suspiciously appeared not to be breathing. She wanted to assure them that it was fine, that Voldemort wouldn’t dare turn her over, condemn her to that fate-- not when she was his horcrux. Yet she held her tongue. Instead, her attention bounced back to the Dark Lord, mildly concerned, and alarmed, that she could already identify the minuscule tells of his anger. The way his jaw had ticked, his fingers twitching slightly, how stillness overcame him.

Crimson eyes fixed themselves on the werewolf, livid he had even _dared_ to speak out of turn, _dared_ to even request such an outrageous thing-- _dared_ to even look at his horcrux in that manner. Fury, vengeful and bitter, started to rise in him at the image of Greyback touching even a single hair on her head, attempting to lay claim to something that the feral pack leader could only dream of. The fire in the mantle flickered dangerously, threatening to plunge the room into darkness, to unleash the savage creature that found its home within the void. He tried to tell himself to calm down, that no one knew, not yet, how much the girl had meant to him-- that it was only reasonable to request a prisoner to turn, like the werewolves had done so many times in the past. But even so. Voldemort rose from his chair, the ground quaking slightly under his anger, the cups on the table rattling in his display of power.

His voice had lower, a creeping coldness to it, “Harri Potter belongs to _me_ , Greyback. Do not presume, even for a second, otherwise. The next time you dare to ask, I will see to it personally that your head ends up on a pike and your entrails are strung over the manor’s gates.”

He settled back into his chair, the fire resuming its steady flames and the quaking ceasing, content at the way the werewolf had clamped his jaw shut and returned, hastily, to his seat. It abated his wrath somewhat that he could make even the feared Greyback, the alpha of the wolves, bow to him so easily. Voldemort steepled his fingers, levelling those before him with a look that demanded no response, no retaliation.

“She is not to be touched.”

The glowing gaze, rage still simmering in their depths, an ember waiting to be stoked, landed on one of the dark-haired twins by Bellatrix’s side.  
When his words finally came, they were slow, purposeful, a nonchalance to them that made them seem all the more damning. “Rabastan, do you recall what my orders were during the raid of Hogwarts?”

Harri sat, tensed, her shoulders drawn up and her hands shaking in her lap. It was the first time that his magic, that the show of power, of anger, hadn’t been directed at her and, from an observer’s perspective, it was terrifying. It was heady, intoxicating, a darkness that sang to her but horrifying nonetheless. The man, Rabastan, looked as though he was going to be ill. She couldn’t blame him. 

“To leave Dumbledore to you and capture the girl unharmed, My Lord,” the identical twin furthest from Bellatrix had echoed numbly, already aware of what was to come.

A slow smile, wicked and cutting, spread across the aristocratic features of the Dark Lord. He leaned back in his throne, as though relaxed and all was right with the world, wand twirling passively in his grip, “Indeed. Your memory seems to be functioning rather well, Rabastan. So, tell me, why was it that, when I finally acquired Harri Potter, she had a rather considerable burn on her upper arm? Would you count that as being “unharmed”?”

The Lestrange brother had opened his mouth to explain, to apologise, to ensure he hadn’t done it on purpose, when a dazzling red spell shot forth from the Dark Lord’s wand, an incantation not even needed. Screams filled the echoing space of the dining parlour as the wizard dropped from his chair, agony contorting his body in the throws of unrelenting torment. Harri stared in distress, in blatant terror, as she saw, for the first time, a cruciatus curse being casted on a living human. The way his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he convulsed on the floor, the gargling strangled sound of his screams, the back arching to an inhuman degree, the sounds of sickening pops as his body stretched itself to its limits. It was a thing of nightmares and she just knew it would haunt her dreams, that image of his suffering would be superimposed behind her lids every time she closed them. Her green eyes bounced wildly around the room, taking in the blank stares, at how casual they all seemed that a man was being tortured just a few feet away from them. A pit formed in her stomach, her body starting to shake in alarm, in sympathetic trauma, and she, vaguely, wondered if she was going to be sick again. 

Harri turned to beg with Voldemort to stop, the spell seemingly going on for ages, but words failed her seeing his expression. His eyes were alight with a vicious glee, his mouth set into a determined smirk, his wand not making any moves, any intentions, to end the spell. ‘He’s enjoying this,’ she thought in panic, eyes snapping back to the suffering wizard whose nose had taken to bleeding. As his head collided, sickeningly, with the marble, Harri jumped from her seat in hysteria, the chair clattering to the ground in a deafening loudness. “Stop it!” she pleaded, desperate to make him end the spell before the man would die, before he could hurt himself further in his vain attempts to escape the pain that was, undoubtedly, searing his nerve endings. She wasn’t even entirely sure if someone could die under the torture curse but, watching its effects on a human body, she had ascertained it to be possible.

Several alarmed gazes, some of them aghast at her sudden outspoken protests, watched as she rushed to the other side of the table, hesitantly crouching down with some difficulty in her dress next to the twitching wizard. Her hands hovered uncertainly above his prone form, tears welling in the corners of her eyes as she pleaded for Voldemort to end the spell, to stop the gruesome sight, to stop the torture. She didn’t even care if his followers thought her weak for begging him, thought her unable to handle the natural violence that came along with being in the Dark Lord’s inner circle.

“Stop it, please! You’re killing him!”

Voldemort blinked slowly at her objections, at her distressed face, before flicking his wand down and ending the spell. He watched as she knelt next to Rabastan, jealousy languidly pacing in the back of his mind at her readiness to put her hands on another man. It was absurd, really. He was getting her vengeance, her justice, her retribution, for the pain his follower had caused her, was taking accountability for his disobedience. And yet, she dared to look at _him_ like he was the monster. He wondered, briefly, just how deeply her saviour complex ran and if all it took was torturing a man before her to make her beg with him, to try to cajole him. A sharp laugh as he shook his head in disbelief, an indulgent smile on his face.

“Oh, Harri. Dear, naive, sweet Harri,” he cocked his head to the side, amusement bleeding into his voice as he trained his twisted glee on her. “What a tender heart you have. So willing, so ready, to stand up even for those who have wished you harm. How very _kind_ of you. ”

A few jeers in agreement and a few bursts of laughter broke out in their Lord’s assessment of the Girl-Who-Lived’s character. She remained kneeling on the ground, helping the slowly recovering wizard up to his feet, concern flooding her at his tremors. Voldemort watched her stay on the marble floor, eyes glittering with a promise, with a predatory look, his wand hanging loosely in his grip.

“Worry not, we will bleed that nasty little habit of yours out rather quickly. Who knows, we may even just make a Death Eater out of you in the process.”

Harri took the proffered hand of Rabastan Lestrange as the dark-haired wizard helped her up on unsteady feet, a calculating look in the depths of his coal eyes. He only sent her a minute nod of her head before returning to his seat and she took it as his way of nonverbal gratitude for interfering on his behalf. 

“And that brings us to our next order of business for the night,” Voldemort said, a keenness to his voice that set her on edge. 

A stack of papers suddenly appeared in front of the now unoccupied spot of Harri’s seat, crisp and official-looking. She moved slowly towards them, body still trembling from witnessing such violence, her dress not helping in hiding how unnerved she was. She decided it was best to remain standing, not being able to bear being mocked again for her struggles to sit in such a constricting outfit. Fingers, cold and unfeeling, picked up the first paper on top of the stack and she nearly fell to the ground in shock, hand shooting out at the last second to grip the table’s edge to steady herself. _‘This_ is what he was planning,’ she thought in horror, heart hammering. She could feel the eyes upon her, the weight of them settling over her skin as her face paled.

“An Order of a Change in Guardianship,” she muttered in a breathless whisper, nausea overcoming her as she tried to process what it meant.

Harri, in desperate confusion, looked to the Dark Lord for an explanation, for something to ground her, to confirm she was reading this right and not imagining it.

He leaned back in his throne, smug and beyond satisfied with himself at his ingenious solution. Political unrest was growing as small factions of Dumbledore’s most loyal tried to rally against him and, while he had made an example out of Tiberius Ogden, more were sure to follow suit. But if he used the Potter’s name, their distant lineage to the Peverell and Black lines, as a backing, it would be harder to uproot his position as Sovereign. It was really killing two birds with one stone-- his claims of legitimacy would be further solidified by an old family and he would show the entire world, the entire Order, he had the Girl-Who-Lived, their last hope, tight in his grasp. Crimson eyes greedily drank in her shock, her alarm, as he registered, in the background, his followers zealously leaning forward in their spots to read the documents.

She shuffled through the pages of the file, rendered mute and unable to breathe. In it outlined properties, estates, villas she didn’t even know she had, money and heirlooms in her vaults that were obscene in amount, her rights to seats on the council that Voldemort had disbanded. It was dizzying, the world blurring and spinning as she thumbed through the documents. And then she noticed, on the last page already sporting his damned signature, the fine print that would entitle it all to him-- her education rights, where she was to live, her bank accounts, her properties. Her entire free will to _him—_ and all until she turned 18, nonetheless. Harri finally found her voice, unsure and quiet as it tried to recover from the little bomb he just decided to drop on her, at his intent to control her.

“You can’t do this,” she struggled to get out, mind in a daze and trying to find a reason, an excuse. “Sirius is my godfather. He’s my guardian.”

A sharp bark of laughter drew her attention as the witch with hooded eyes nearly doubled over.

“You,” she suddenly seethed, laughter giving rise to maniacal anger as she pushed her chair out from her. “You would _dare_ to say _no_ to our Lord? Tell him what he can or can not do? To choose my dirty, traitorous cousin over him?!”

She was nearly yelling at this point, looking ready to claw her eyes out and Harri watched her warily. It appeared she had been right in hazarding a guess about the mental issues. Narcissa suddenly appeared at the witch’s side, struggling to pull her sister away from the table, both stilling when the Dark Lord idly raised a hand. 

His attention was focused entirely on his horcrux, basking in her dismay, in her disbelief, taking delight in that he had caught her off guard once again. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes shining in pleasure at knowing he was about to shock her even further.

“You are quite wrong there, Harri. Sirius Black was never formally recognised as your godfather nor guardian. He was one in name and one in name only, your parents never having the chance to finalize the paperwork before their demise. By de facto, Albus Dumbledore became your guardian and seeing as he is currently _missing_ ,” he chanced a quick glimpse at Snape, a smouldering look that made the potions master shrink back. “You need a new one appointed to you.”

His words took a few seconds to process, eyes going wide and she was sure that she was going to faint, that it was a miracle she hadn’t yet already.

She shook her head adamantly, wanting to deny it all, to claim he was deceiving her, “No, no you’re wrong. There’s no way—”

“That Dumbledore lied to you? Oh, I assure you, it is entirely possible and has already happened, in fact,” he replied smugly, watching the struggle as clear as day on her face— that lost look was back in her eyes.

“You can’t make me,” she protested, tossing the papers down onto the table forcefully and seething at the fact that he now wanted to fully control her, that he wanted even more from her. 

Voldemort leaned forward in his chair, lips pulled back into a sneer at her refusal. Apparently, his warnings from earlier were going over her head once again.

 _“Don’t act like a child. Sign it, Harri,”_ he slipped into parseltongue, a quill flying up into her hand.

It was moments like these he wished he could cast the imperius on her, force her to obey without having to deal with her resistance. 

_“No! You can’t force me, this isn’t fair!”_

Her ability to speak English was lost in her anger, instinctively slipping into another tongue upon hearing his.

She barely registered the inward draws of breath, the awed stares, as she conversed in the sacred language of their Lord. Harri realised, briefly, that they probably were not aware of her ‘secret talent’ and she wondered if Voldemort would be upset that she had accidentally revealed it. ‘Well screw him,’ she thought venomously. She threw the quill back down to the wooden table and staggered a few steps away, determined to put distance between herself and the paper that demanded she sign her life, her everything, away.

He rose from his throne, teeth bared in a snarl and wrath unfurling. The flames went back to flickering dangerously, shadows growing in the corners of the room. She still dared to disobey him, even after his kindness, after all of his warnings. The quill forcefully shot back into her hand, a burst of his magic breaking free and pulling her back to the table, unrelenting pressure between her shoulder blades that forced her to bend slightly.

“ _You will sign it,”_ he seethed, tone going cold in rage as his scarlet eyes pointedly moved to rest on the wane face of Draco Malfoy. _“Or do I need to give you some more motivation to do so?”_

Her heart dropped to her stomach as she followed his gaze, at the way he was eyeing the Slytherin boy with murderous intent. Guilt overrode her other emotions as she realised the position the boy was being put in, the one who had helped her, who had been kind to her, the target on his back simply because he was close to her. Her vow to protect him, Narcissa lovingly reminiscing about his childhood, the way the matriarch had treated her so kindly, all it came rushing back in. Tears blurred her vision as she stared at the boy’s terrified face, at how clueless he looked, at how unaware of the danger he was truly in. The anticipating stares, the held breaths, the critical assessments of the Death Eaters all fell away as she trained her eyes down to parchment, to the blank line that mockingly stared up at her. The pressure between her shoulder blades increased and she, shakily, dipped the quill into the inkwell. A drop had spilled from the nib, blooming greedily across the paper, a lump in her throat as she debated how to get out of this, how to run. ‘There is no escape,’ she thought dimly, squeezing her eyes shut and hastily signing her name. When she opened them again, there it was, a messy scrawl of cursive right above the artistic flourish of ‘Marvolo Gaunt’, a sharp contrast that spoke of who was really in control. 

She may not have had a Dark Mark like the rest of them, their proof of contract and fealty to their Lord, but she still had bent her knee nonetheless. Harri Potter had just signed her life away to Devil himself.


	33. Her Reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This chapter is a tad longer than usual but I just ended up getting a bit carried away-- there's a character finally coming back into the spotlight that I think some of you have missed dearly! <3
> 
> You guys are all so wonderful and amazing, thank you for every comment and kudos you have given this fic so far! I wish I could do more to express my gratitude than just say it in an authour's note but it truly does mean so much to me <3 You guys have inspired me to keep writing this fic and to keep going forward with my plot for it so thank you!

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Harri stared numbly down at the messy scrawl of her signature, a small part of her screaming, begging to know why she had just given in, had handed him everything he desired. The quill began to quiver and she realised, belatedly, as she watched the white plume dance, that her hands were trembling. It was an unnerving feeling to know she had just traded another’s life for her own, that she had just signed away her entire existence, her future, in hopes to spare a boy that she had only recently gotten close to. ‘You knew that you were never going to escape him,’ a faithless voice whispered in the back of her mind, heart stuttering at the thought, at how right it was. Yes, she knew it, from the moment he held her in that constraining embrace in the forest, from the moment that Hogwarts was burning and the Dark Mark glittered in the celestial heavens above. She was never going to be able to leave, to escape. Tears burned stubbornly at the thought, her cursed name forever immortalised on parchment, that single drop of ink blooming in bright corruption against the paper. It was the damnation, the reckoning of Harri Potter.

 _“Well done, Harri,”_ he crooned in their shared language, his magic receding from the unrelenting pressure between her shoulder blades and finally allowing the quill to drop from her grip.

Satisfaction and triumph were bright spots in his conscience as he felt the binding contract settle heavily, densely, over his shoulders, his skin. It was done-- Harri Potter finally belonged to him in all sense of the word, both physically, mentally, spiritually, and now legally. It was gratifying to know that his little horcrux couldn’t run even if she wanted to. His eyes found themselves wandering to the lightning scar hidden by the strands of her auburn hair, an obsessive thought taking hold of how many times he had marked her as his own, had laid his claim to her, and how many more times he would do so in the future.

Voldemort floated over to her shaking form, footsteps as silent as death itself, greedily drinking in the horror in her downturned gaze, how those vivid green eyes began to shine wetly, how her chin was starting to quiver. It appeared that she was finally having a revelation about her connection to him and, while he, normally, would have welcomed it, knowing it was only a matter of time before she had to fully accept the truth, he needed her to stay collected. The night was far from being done after all. He slotted himself next to her, towering over her and drinking in her name above his. ‘She’ll have to work on her penmanship,’ he thought critically, her cursive dismal at best. A pale hand, elegant and shapely, reached to grab hold of her much smaller one, ignoring the quiet gasp of shock from Bellatrix in the corner.

Summoning forth the light of their bond, that pleasurable heat, the glowing buoyancy, he pushed it insistently through to her skin, delighted when her shoulders stopped shivering and her eyes seemed drier, "You have done wonderfully, Harri, but the night is far from over.”

Harri was vaguely aware that she should have felt horror, anger, alarm at the fact he was using that strange power to influence her again, that she should reject him, pull away her hand from him in protest. But she found herself unable to, helpless in the face of something so great and unknown to her, only wanting to bask in it and forget her feelings of despair. Just for a second, that’s all she needed. She watched, dimly, as his hand practically engulfed hers, overshadowing and dominating the hold. ‘Fitting,’ she thought, the tone somehow lacking its usual bitterness in the throes of the floating sensation. 

Then as quickly as it started, it vanished from her system as he withdrew his touch from her. Her surroundings came flooding back in. His court still remained in their seats, apprehensively watching their interactions with a new light. Her gaze bounced around to them, the ones who had met her eye holding a keenness, an awe, that made her heart drop to her stomach. Apparently, revealing that you’re a secret parselmouth to a den full of Slytherins was enough for them to change their tune. She decided then that she missed their earlier sneers, having found that preferable to their looks of hungry, of greed. 

“Pardon?” she finally asked in delayed confusion, grimacing at the fact that he had more planned, that the main event had yet to come.

A razor smile, all teeth, and a hand shot out to hook around her waist, eagerness and anticipation dancing brightly in his gaze, “You will see soon enough.” 

The arm at her waist began to steer her insistently towards the doors, a rustling of chairs in the background the only confirmation she had that his followers were in pursuit. Harri stumbled to keep up with his long strides, the hold on her unwavering, uncompromising in its strength. A headache began to form in the back of her mind, her mouth suddenly too dry, as he led them down a darkened hallway, the wall’s sconces giving off far too little light. He was wearing a suit, she noticed belatedly, a black ensemble with a matching robe over it, an identical medallion to the one at her throat on his chest. For some reason, she knew what he was wearing wasn’t his typical, casual affair and it made her knees go weak at what it might mean.

They finally paused outside of a grand set of oak doors, his followers behind him fanning out to form a procession. Voldemort allowed his gaze to finally wander down to the girl in his grasp, her quickened breaths making her ribcage expand erratically. She looked so small next to him, barely reaching his shoulder, her face ashen and wane as though she were expecting something terrible to occur. ‘She’s always thinking the worst, isn’t she?’ While the thought amused him, he also recognised that it was partially his fault for fostering that kind of mentality. 

His fingers clenched slightly, digging into the soft skin at the nip of her waist, making her nearly jump out of her skin and turn her gaze up to him in alarm, in questioning. Though he would never admit it aloud, it felt right to have her at his side, to have his hands on her waist, to feel the heat of her seeping through the fabric of her dress. And how she looked up with those doe-like eyes, confused and searching his for answers. Yes, this was precisely where his horcrux had belonged-- in his grasp and gaze only meant for him. It took a good portion of his self-control not to let the hand at her waist wander further down, to pull her tighter to him. 

Instead, he fixed her with a warning, his eyes holding a promise of what was to come if she didn’t listen, didn’t obey.

“Behave,” a low whisper, watching, quite pleased, as she gave the slightest minute nod of her head, a show of understanding. 

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* * *

The doors swung open and it was a crescendo of noise, an overwhelming display of flashing lights. Harri felt frozen, adrift, only entering the room at the insistent pull on her waist, her feet reluctant to move. There were cameras everywhere, voices rising above one another in a cacophony of questions that she couldn’t even understand. Her eyes bounced wildly from reporter to reporter, feeling blindsided by all directions as the bursts of lights blinded her, superimposed themselves behind her lids. Her heart, at this point, she was sure was on the floor, her stomach tossing in endlessly nauseating waves at the assault of voices, of mics being thrust into her face. Harri had never liked dealing with the press or with the interviews, and she felt even more underprepared than usual in a dress that did little to comfort her, to protect her. ‘Make it stop,’ a whisper begged of her, headache sharpening agonizingly so at the harsh flares of the cameras, at the smell of rancid gunpowder as they captured her moving image. 

It occurred to her, as she took in their greed, their hunger for a new story, that they were here to get photos of her next to Voldemort. To capture her betrayal to Sirius, to everyone she loved, to those who all depended on her. A headline flashed in her mind, “Harri Potter, The Girl-Who-Lived Defects to the Darkside”. Images of the crumpled faces of nameless strangers, of them bleeding out in the streets with no one to save them, of her parents from beyond the grave devastated and wondering if they had sacrificed their lives for nothing. Of Hermione being mauled by werewolves on the steps of Hogwarts, of Ron seizing against the marble floor under a torture curse held for too long. The press was here to capture her shame, immortalize her failure, record the day that their champion, their Bringer of Peace, fell at the feet of the man she was born to vanquish. She felt sick, with shame, with guilt, with horror, beyond ill and ready to retch. Images of the girl in the mirror, the girl she didn’t recognise, came back to her and she realised that was who these outsiders were seeing in the moment, who everyone in Wizarding Britain would undoubtedly look upon come the morning post. They weren’t going to see Harri Potter-- they were going to see the monster, the snake turned woman playing pretend, the image that Voldemort had cultivated just for this night. 

She wrenched herself from his hold at her waist, curling into his shoulder and shielding herself from the too eager, too fervid faces of the reporters before her. She couldn’t bring herself to care that she probably looked weak, frightened, nothing more than a girl trying to keep up the pretense of being an adult. All she wanted was for it to stop. For them to go away, to leave her in peace so she could wallow in what she had done, for her failures to be her own and only her own. Those green eyes squeezed shut as her curled hands came up to rest, trembling, against his chest, burying her head into his frame to hide herself from the too-prying looks. 

_“Make them stop,”_ she pleaded into the starched fabric of his collared shirt, a soft whisper in their shared tongue, desperate to find some relief, some escape from the onslaught of flashes and looping questions.

Surprise and then delight flooded through their bond but she only noticed it distantly. Self-loathing occupied her at the fact that she was relying on him, the man who was the cause of this all, the man who had ruined her time and time again, to help her. The smell of sweet smoke, of cinnamon, of something sharp, refreshing, like the first frost of winter, filled her and, as much as she hated to admit it, she felt slightly calmer, more grounded, breathing it in.

Voldemort studied the girl in surprise for a second, processing what had just happened. And then delight, pleasure, elation at the fact she was leaning into him, begging him for assistance. His hand rose to her waist to protectively slot her against himself, permitting a minute to revel at her willingness to touch him, to clutch at him when frightened. He supposed it was partly because he was standing next to her and that this was her first reaction. But nonetheless, it was _him_ that she had reached for. The Dark Lord stood there for a second, allowing the girl to grip at the front of his shirt, allowing himself to feel her heartbeat against his own, the soft mound of her chest, his hands idly tracing the dip of the waist and the beginning curve of the hip. A bright smile was aimed towards the reporters, giving them a second to capture the image of the famous Harri Potter in his arms. Then he dropped his hands before it could appear that he was a tad too friendly with her, that she was something more than his newly appointed charge, his responsibility. 

“My apologies everyone,” his posh accent drawled confidently, dazzling smile never once dimming, “It appears that my new ward is just a touch camera shy.” 

A round of friendly laughter, a few sympathetic clicks of tongues, came from the wall of bodies before them. With the ever so slightest jerk of his chin, Narcissa darted forward from the procession behind him.

Reluctantly, he pried his shell-shocked horcrux from her vice like grip on him, relinquishing her to the mercies of Narcissa and hissing under his breath, tone holding a cutting edge, “Inform the others to keep an eye on her.” 

Harri dimly heard him reassuring the press that he would take any and all questions but she drowned it out as Narcissa put a comforting arm over her shoulders, steering her away from the curious onlookers of paparazzi. With shaky breaths, she tried to calm her heart, to regain her sense of courage, her footing, to ease her headache. But as she was guided into the heart of the party, a drink placed in her hand and the soft words coaxing for her to have some, all she could think was that she suddenly felt cold, adrift, and unsure. 

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“Potter!”

She whirled around from staring into the fizzing glass of champagne, trying to recover her wits to feel brave enough to leave Narcissa’s side. Draco had come bounding out of the crowd, pushing aside reporters and party-goers alike to make his way over. Relief, cool and refreshing, washed over her at the sight of the blond boy, his appearance a welcomed distraction.

“Draco,” she hadn’t even thought twice about throwing her arms about his shoulders, pulling him down to her level in an embrace.

He felt different from the Dark Lord, his angles not as sharp, his height not as imposing, his chest not as broad. The pureblood was everything Voldemort was not, boyish and good-natured, calming and gentle. Tears pricked behind her closed lids, a lump in her throat at seeing he was unharmed, that she had managed to spare him pain at the cost of her own expense.

An embarrassed cough made her drop her arms, a sheepish smile on her face for an apology as the Malfoy heir straightened, face scarlet and tips of his ears burning. She was vaguely aware of Narcissa’s keen gaze fixed on them, watching their interaction with an assessing glint. She felt awkward by her sudden display of affection when his mother was lingering and, judging by his weight shifting from foot to foot, he felt the same. Luckily, the matriarch seemed to understand as she pointed with the flute of her champagne glass to her husband, an eyebrow quirked before wandering off. 

Draco watched his mother retreat, hearing her cautioning words though she hadn’t spoken them aloud. The blush had died down, much to his relief, but as he dragged his gaze back to his schoolmate, it threatened to rise up again. He cleared his throat, running his hands through his slicked-back hair.

“It’s good to see you again, Potter. After Hogwarts I--well I just didn’t,” he fumbled for his words, brows drawn together as his mind turned muddled.

“It’s good to see you too, Draco,” she finished for him, already guessing where his thoughts were attempting to go and understanding his difficulty in voicing them.

After all, the last time they had seen each other, she was being hunted down by a vengeful Dark Lord. She placed a light hand on his arm, sending him a small smile that assured him she understood completely.

“So, you are the Dark Lord’s ward now?” He let out a bitter laugh, reaching over to grab a glass of champagne and downing the fizzing liquid.

It burst brightly in his throat as he tried to wash out the taste of fear, of anxiety, of moroseness from his mouth. He could never claim to be privy to his Lord’s mind, to be able to understand what went on it, but he knew well enough that the redheaded witch’s life was not going to be an easy, uncomplicated one. Plus, he had been there and while he, admittedly, found himself distracted upon seeing her, he still saw the darkness in those red eyes. That ravenous hunger, that desire. The Dark Lord was a man, just like any of them, having cravings and impulses and he would be a fool not to be swayed by the beauty of Harri Potter. And that set Draco on edge more than anything else, knowing he would be helpless to stop any of it. He took another glass off the tray and downed it.

“Yeah, apparently so. Lucky me,” she mumbled with a matching level of spite, noticing the way those around them were fixated by her, their stares assessing, critical.

She took her own sip of the golden liquid, the bubbles dancing across her tongue, “Be honest with me, this dress? It’s stupid isn’t it? Everyone keeps looking.”

Tension drew up his shoulders at her question, pale eyes darting wildly around to see if anyone was listening in, if the Dark Lord was hovering nearby and waiting to divine punishment if Draco was too free with his thoughts. They retrained themselves on the girl, glued to her body as he was given permission to freely take it all in. Admittedly, he never saw her wearing anything remotely close to the dress and it was like a haze had been pulled over his rational thoughts. Their school uniforms never revealed too much of their figures, though the skirts did allow for some leg to be shown, and her casual outfits had always tended to be oversized, boyish and a bit too muggle. 

But now? Now she was radiant, a goddess guarded by an insignia at her throat that acted as a brand, as a ward to lesser men, that she couldn’t be touched. And it made him irrationally angry, images of the Hufflepuff party coming back to him. How badly he wanted to gloat, to challenge his Lord’s claim, to tell them all that _she_ had kissed _him_ first, that they had a bond born from days spent in secret by the lake.

His eyes lingered briefly on the swell of her chest, at the hourglass of her hips, before looking back up, tone even and serious, “You look divine, Harri.”

She blinked a few times before laughing at how serious he was, finding it easier to play it off as him being kind rather than actually accepting the compliment. Then he had her hand in his, a warmth that she didn’t even know her cold fingers were missing, as he jerked his head, claiming that were people he wanted her to meet.

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* * *

As it turned out, the people he wanted her to meet were ones she was, vaguely, familiar with. Draco had led her over to a small group of teenagers, ones she recognised from the Slytherin table. A silence fell over the huddled group when they had approached, hesitantly saying hello after a beat of too long of quiet. She lingered for a few minutes, uncomfortable by how hesitant they seemed to speak in her presence, their eyes, more than once, landing obsessively on the medallion at her throat.

And of course she hadn’t missed the wizards scattered about the room, the ones she recognised from the meeting, glancing over at her every so often. She moved and so would a random one, trying to keep in her shadow, never letting her go free or go too far. It was beginning to make her mind pace, an itch crawling in her chest, scraping the inside of her ribcage raw in irritation. It felt too stifling, too crowded, the room too much and too little all at once. Harri sent Draco an apologetic smile, claiming she needed air, before threading her way through the crowded parlour and to the open french doors.

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The air was biting, snowflakes lazily drifting down from the night sky as bright flecks of glowing white, and Harri found herself shivering but not entirely minding it. After all, it was preferable to the suffocating heat of the room, to the eyes that warmed her skin, to the looks of scheming as they attempted to figure out who exactly she was, what her position was among their ranks. She cupped her hands, letting snowflakes gather in them as they melted away into droplets on her skin. She realised then that she hadn’t been outside since Hogwarts, since he told her to remember the stars. A grim sense of foreboding passed through her at the memory, arms clutching about her torso to fight off the chills stemming not entirely from the winter’s wind. The hem of her dress dragged along the cobblestone paths, the main balcony areas seemingly having been cleared off earlier but were now sporting an accumulating dusting of white. 

A burst of laughter from inside had her warily looking back towards the warm glow of the Manor, the briefest thought to run crossing her mind. Voldemort had disappeared, no doubt to deal with the reporters he invited, and, as far as she could tell, none of his spies had noticed she left. And Zivvy-- the creature had yet to return so, perhaps, it hadn’t been able to find Sirius. ‘I have to tell him first,’ a snippet of a thought echoed, quite random in its insistence. But when she thought of her godfather, his always smiling face, hearing the news from a paper that he had lost another part of his dear friends, that he had failed to protect his goddaughter, it did something terrible to her heart. The sorrow, the desperation, squeezed so tightly around it, constricting its beating to a dull thud. She couldn’t bear for him to think that she abandoned him willingly, in spite of him doing the same to her on several occasions. Maybe she could convince Voldemort to let her speak to him? To explain why she had signed her name so he wouldn’t have to read about it in some heartless report?

The crunch of something heavy walking through the snow brought her out of her melancholic reverie and she looked up, mildly alarmed, at the towering beast-like man from the dining room. ‘Greyback,’ her mind supplied, her eyes narrowing that it was apparently his turn to guard her now. Faint warning bells began to go off though as she tried to recall when she last saw him, that he hadn’t been in the party before this moment. She uncurled her arms from her torso and straightened her spine, trying to look calm, collected, not at all alarmed at the thought.

“Ah, there you are, little pup,” yellowed teeth flashed as sauntered over to her, clawed hands crudely stuffed into the pockets of the torn pants, grey eyes catching the moonlight, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

She eyed him in trepidation, recalling his words from the meeting, his begging for her to be given over to him. Her instincts were screaming to be careful, to not take her eyes off of him, that he wasn’t like the other Death Eaters, that he seemed more dangerous. Harri bit her tongue, refusing to rise to the bait, to ask why he had been searching for her, to show any response at all.

“You know, I think you’d like being a wolf,” he paused a few inches from her, an impatience in his gaze at the lack of her response. The glowing defiance in those unflinching green eyes made him smirk, animalistic urges itching to break that spirit.

In a way, he could understand why his Lord seemed so taken with her, had looked at her the way he did when she entered the room, “Your spine is wasted on being just a witch.”

Greyback leaned down to crowd her space, taking demented glee in the fact that she had gone rigid, his face inches from her own. “I promise I’ll be gentle, if that’s what you’re afraid of."

A suggestive grin, a lecherous gleam that made his eyes darken, “For the bite that is. Can’t make any promises about what comes after though. I’ve never been really good at handling virgins.”

A mortified, outraged blush spread across Harri’s face and, for the millionth time since arriving at Malfoy Manor, she wished for a wand to show him how ‘gentle’ _she_ could be. Something dark, twisted, unfurled in her, urged on by embarrassment, and she thought, vindictively, that maybe she wouldn’t entirely mind if Voldemort got his hands on this one. She had opened her mouth to retort, to threaten him, to call him vile and repulsive for even suggesting it when someone interrupted her. 

“And here I thought that dogs were supposed to be good at obeying.”

Harri turned halfway on the spot to see Fake-Moody strolling towards them in the snow, posture relaxed but a wildness in his hazel eyes that made her believe he wouldn’t think twice about striking someone down.

“Go find someone else to stick your cock in, Greyback. Or have you already forgotten our Lord’s orders? Because, if so, I can gladly call him if you need a refresher,” the younger man sneered, tilting his head over his shoulder towards the ruckus of the party.

The werewolf snarled, conflict warring across his features as though he were debating about risking it all and fighting his fellow Death Eater. In the end, however, he ended up growling in frustration, spitting onto the ground and roughly shoving the wizard on his way past. 

“Lovely chap,” the wizard grimaced, rolling his shoulder experimentally and flinching at the tenderness, “Always such a delight.”

Harri blinked at him, taking in his tailored clothes and, admittedly, handsome face. He didn’t look anything at all like the grisly professor she had spent time with and it set her on edge. After all, how long had he pretended to be Mad-eye? And did she even ever get to meet the real auror? She slowly made her way towards him, regarding him in suspicion, in tentative puzzlement.

“Thank you, _Professor Moody,_ ” her words were reluctant, finding it difficult to thank one Death Eater for chasing off another. Emphasis was put on his fake name as her eyes narrowed, strolling past him and noting as he followed in suit. Who knows, maybe she had traded Greyback’s company for someone far worse?

A sharp laugh was her answer, his head thrown back in maniacal delight, “Right, I haven’t properly introduced myself, have I Potter?”

In a theatrical bow, swept low and arms spread wide, he set her with an equally crazed looking grin, “Bartemius Crouch Jr., at your service. Though, frankly, I’ve just been going by Barty these days. Daddy issues, you know?”

She stared at him, coming to the disturbing realization that the dark-haired witch who had screamed at her, who apparently held a flame of adoration for the Dark Lord, wasn’t the only Death Eater not of sound mind. ‘Merlin help me,’ she thought in desperation at the idea she was not only in the snake’s pit but in a lair full of deranged ones at that, “So, _Barty_ , I have to ask. How long were you Moody for?”

They had taken to walking back towards the glow of the Manor, the snow picking up in exorbitant amounts and the wind growing fiercer. Harri watched him from the corner of her eye, the way his gaze darted rapidly from snowflake to snowflake.

“A little over a year, actually. Since the start of your 5th,” he responded distantly, head tilting to one side as a particularly loud wave of laughter floated out from the french doors.

Harri stopped in her tracks to look at him in thinly-veiled horror, it suddenly all clicking into place.

“You!” she seethed, rounding on him, fury bright in her eyes at the sudden revelation, “You put my name into the Goblet! And the cup- you made it a portkey!”

Barty held his hands up defensively, finding an odd sense of amusement in her anger, in her accusations, “Guilty as charged on all accounts. You really do hold grudges, don’t you Potter?”

She felt like screaming, like slapping him, like bashing his head in with a rock. He had ruined her year, made her participate in a competition designed to maim and torture, had made it so the Dark Lord could be reborn into existence. And yet, he was so nonchalant about it all, apparently finding no issue with it and even accusing her of holding a vendetta against him. The headache was back with a viciousness, with a spite, and she massaged her temples in a vain effort to chase it away. Even though she wanted to be mad, to yell and exact justice, to make him regret ever deceiving her, she found it hard to summon the energy to do so. In a twisted way, he had been a good professor to her, had helped her, even if it was for his gain, had given her invaluable information. And the tournament seemed so distant at this point, so far in the past, that she wasn’t even sure if it truly mattered anyway. It was part of her old life, a life she could never return to, and thinking back on it only filled her with desperation, with longing. 

With a shaky, uneven sigh, she trained her attention to the manor and settled for asking in a quiet voice, muted and dim in comparison to the joy coming from the open doors of the veranda, “Why did he throw a party tonight?”

She had nearly expected him to laugh, to act deranged, to do something that showed he wasn’t in the right frame of mind but he hadn’t.

Instead, the Death Eater at her side went silent, his own gaze following her direction, and Harri was unnerved by his sudden moment of sanity, “I had you in my class for almost two years, Potter. You’re a smart girl, I know you are. So you tell me.”

A ghost of a chill, goosebumps prickling her skin under long sleeves. She already had guessed the answer, had figured it out when the reporters showed up. It was just that a small part of her was hoping to be wrong, to be verbally corrected, that he had just thrown it together to make her feel uncomfortable. A naive part of her thought that maybe, just maybe, this was what life was like in the Death Eater inner circle-- meetings, torture, and soirees. 

But she was wrong, the wizard at her side had just confirmed it. Voldemort needed her to be seen tonight, to be observed in his arms and at his side, to be having fun amongst his most faithful and smiling for the cameras. She thought that, maybe, he had been reluctant to tell the world about having Harri Potter in his clutches, that he didn’t want to cause a rebellion, not yet. Snape had certainly made it seem that way, that he was waiting for something else, for the right time. And yet, once again, her naivety had stopped herself from seeing the full picture. He wanted the Order to know that he had her, to force them into action, out of hiding, to eradicate them once they dared to make a move. Because, next to Dumbledore, she was their most important piece, their hidden card, their Queen. And without their King on the board, missing for whatever reason, they needed her back.

This was his challenge to them, a chance to see the might of the Order of the Phoenix, “He’s trying to flush them out.”

A beat of silence and her suspicions were confirmed.

“Come on, Potter,” he reached for her shoulder, pushing her unmoving feet into action and back towards the house, “He’s summoning you.”


	34. Ballrooms and Waltzes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This chapter is up a tad bit later than usual because I ended up doing some heavy revision for it. 
> 
> I ended up watching Labyrinth tonight (one of my favourite movies of all time by the way) and I was just so struck by the ballroom scene that I just wanted to include one. I'm weak and can't help myself from indulging in my childhood obsession with balls and waltzes.
> 
> But as usual, thank you to everyone who has been commenting and just actively giving me feedback for this story! I appreciate all of you for taking the time to write out your thoughts! <3
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy!

* * *

* * *

Much to her dismay, and to her reluctance, Harri was ushered back inside to the party by her old professor. The air seemed twice as stifling now, an itching across her skin and sharp pin pricks in the numbness of her fingers, as she slowly started to warm up from the minutes spent in the snow. And not for the first time since she was dragged to this hellish soiree did she find herself wishing for it to be over, to go back to the quiet of the bedroom, to get out of this dress and to wallow by processing everything that had happened over the span of a few hours. Instead, however, she was led through the crowd, threading and weaving past the mass of bodies dressed in ostentatious finery to a raised dais. Her gaze lifted itself from the ground and up past the steps, the white marble obscured by a runner of emerald velvet fabric. At its peak, a high backed chair was displayed for all to see. ‘More like a throne,’ she thought idly, taking in the height of it, the ornately carved snakes twisting in the dark wood, the intricate scrolls for the arm rests. It was massive, occupying up a good deal of the plateaued space and she wondered, briefly, how she had even missed it upon walking in.

Begrudgingly, it was impressive, a testament to the power of whoever occupied its seat, to their control and absolute authority over the room. And, of course, there was only one person who could fill the throne’s grandness, who could look so at home, so comfortable, in something so excessively luxurious, so pretentious. Seated there, legs crossed and posture relaxed in a natural grace, red eyes boring into her, was none other than the Dark Lord. A casual motion, a wave of his open hand, and the Death Eater at her back was pushing her up the stairs, her feet heavy and disinclined to move. Vaguely, Harri registered the fixated stares as she made her way up onto the dais, their weight making the hair on the back of her neck rise as she was, once again, unwillingly pushed into the spotlight. There were a few other wizards, she noticed, scattered about the platform and hovering a respectable distance from the throne. A few she had recognised, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy for one, the dark-haired witch she still hadn’t learnt the name of, the identical brothers and- ah, Snape. The breath she had been holding left her shakily at the sight of the sour-faced potions master, his familiar pinched expression giving her the vaguest sense of reassurance. 

“Ah, there you are Harri. I was beginning to wonder where you disappeared off to.”

An unbidden shiver passed through her at his choice of words, the very same ones that he had spoken in the graveyard. Somehow, she had found them just as foreboding as they were back then, when he was trying to kill her, to vanquish her, amongst the tombstones just moments after his rebirth. Harri found herself determinedly dodging his gaze, eyes finding purchase on everything else but him, a small nod the only form of a response she could give. Green eyes desperately clung to the cloaked figure of Snape, trying to discern any tells in his impassive coal stare, in the recessed frown lines at the corners of his mouth, in his rigid posture. 

Standing this high above the crowd made the voices below even more distant, even more blurred together. It unnerved her. She decided then that she hated towering over them, being this vulnerable, being put into a position where they could casually observe her at their own inclinations. Irritation, sharp annoyance, coloured the connection of their bond, forcing her to drag her pleading eyes off of Snape and back to the Devil on his throne. He had a tight smile plastered on his features, one that did little to offset the dark displeasure in his eyes, a pale finger incessantly tapping on the delicately carved armrest.

‘She did it again,’ his thoughts were dyed richly with impatience, astonished that she had the gall to not even look at him or acknowledge that he had spoken. Voldemort had traced her gaze to where it had landed on Severus and his mind started to turn with the vaguest plans of how to separate the two. Though the man had proven himself, his loyalty, countless times, there was still a voice cautioning him about putting too much weight into the potions master. And the fact that his little horcrux had apparently felt something of a kinship towards him made his teeth grind. With no qualms or reservations about doing so, the Dark Lord pushed his disapproval, his discontent, forcefully through the open gates of their link, making sure she could feel it. Slightly sated when those emerald eyes were trained back to him, he gestured towards the backless cushioned chair beside his throne, slightly lower to the ground and not as ornate as his own. 

“Sit,” he instructed firmly, tracking her movements as she, with minor difficulty due to the tightness of her dress, took the place at his side.

Voldemort busied himself with scanning the crowd of his followers, his acolytes, below on the main floor and finding himself content with the fact that they all seemed fixated on the redheaded witch beside him. It pleased him at how their eyes would shift to the dais during their conversations, trying to be subtle in discussing what the famous Girl-Who-Lived was doing here in the first place. ‘Good,’ he thought, finding the recent development amiable, ‘Let them see. Let them all play witness to Harri Potter sitting at my side.’ It was precisely what needed to be done-- to show his hounds that she was not to be touched, that he had claimed her and given her an honour most could only dream of. He finally allowed his eyes to shift towards her from his periphery, noticing how she seemed tense, rigid, unsure, her shoulders drawn up and her spine painfully straight. 

“Drink,” his command was simple enough as he summoned over a floating tray to her, a flute of champagne balancing on it.

She seemed hesitant to take it but he willed his magic out in encouragement, her slight jolt a physical indication that she could feel him. Satisfied when her hand tentatively wrapped around the glass’s stem, he banished the tray and watched in obsession, in predatory rapture, when she raised the rim to her painted rosebud mouth. When she took a small sip, he tracked the movement of her throat, the way it had bobbed, the pale column exposed before forcing his attention back to the crowd.

Harri tried to understand why he had called her, had made her sit next to him in silence, why he seemed intent on embarrassing her even further by placing her in everyone’s purview. But, as with all things he did, it was underhanded and with a disguised agenda. Her throat constricted at the fact that he was gloating by making her come up onto the platform, that he was making sure everyone had an equal chance to drink her in, could testify to her presence among them. The flute tipped back and the bubbles danced across her tongue, a pleasant fizz and a radiating warmth that distracted her. She had taken to eyeing the Death Eaters scattered about the stage, how most of them were content to converse with one another. One of the black haired twins, she realised, had a mole under his left eye and she had determined that one to be Rabastan. He looked mostly recovered, thankfulness flooded her at the thought, though he still seemed hesitant to move too quickly. More than once, he had caught her eye but had yet to approach nor give any indication that acknowledged her. ‘Love the gratitude,’ she thought sarcastically, taking another sip from her glass.

A movement of black and she recognised, from the corner of her eye, that the witch with wild curls had moved towards the Dark Lord. Harri blinked a few times in mild shock, trying to comprehend how revealing the woman’s outfit truly was. An indecent amount of cleavage exposing a sizable chest, a slit in the side that went up to an obscene height on her leg, the figure that looked as though it had invented the term hourglass. She couldn’t help the mortified blush at the witch’s boldness, at her confidence to even wear such a thing out in public. The Death Eater had leaned down suggestively, a tad too close in her opinion, the dark painted sultry mouth quirking, her chest pushed out in a purposeful manner, eyes dancing with glee, with lust.

‘And he’s just eating up,’ she thought venomously, trying not to dwell on the fact that she may have been slightly jealous. Whatever the witch had whispered in his ear had left the Dark Lord with a wide smile, teeth gleaming and sharp, his head thrown slightly back in genuine, low laughter. The woman soon joined in, placing a hand with sharply pointed nails on his chest and tracing idle circles. Darkness, bitterness, blossomed unwillingly in her as she downed the flute in her hand, replacing it with another full one from a passing tray. ‘Apparently, he won’t talk to me but he has time for flirting? That’s rich.’ Harri didn’t quite understand where this resentment, this spark of envy, had come from but she allowed herself to feel it nonetheless. After all, he had dragged her inside, put her on a pedestal next to him, and for what? To make her sit in silence, to not converse with her but openly flirt with a witch who was obviously looking for something far less harmless than a smile and an indulgent laugh. A stubborn voice suggested that, perhaps, it was more than being simply upset at being ignored, that maybe she was annoyed with the fact that he was letting his eyes wander after they had been glued to her all night, that she was irritated by his attention drifting. Harri stamped it down, resolutely ignoring it. 

Voldemort, briefly, slid his glance over to his horcrux, noting her pursued mouth, her gaze set firmly ahead, the tightness of her fingers around the glass’s stem. And oh, how he could feel it in their connection, in their link. She was _jealous_ , of all things, miffed that he was talking to Bellatrix, laughing alongside his follower, and not her. He would be lying if he said that it hadn’t thrilled him, had urged him on to laugh just slightly louder to stoke that flame. After all, he had witnessed her embrace with the Malfoy boy, had seen the way she let him openly leer at her, had been so carefree and loose with her smiles, with her touches, with her girlish giggles. It was perfect retribution, karma at its finest. 

* * *

* * *

“My Lord,” he turned his attention from Bellatrix to Barty hovering on the steps in a bow of reverence, “A Rita Skeeter is requesting an audience with you.”

With a wave of his hand, he sent the dark-haired witch scurrying back to the corner, giving the slightest nod of his head in agreement. He could feel the tension come back into his horcrux, the jealousy falling to a wave of sudden vitriol, of hostility. ‘Interesting,’ were his distant thoughts as a blonde sauntered up the steps, bejeweled cat eye glasses catching the light and lime green suit clashing with her scarlet lipstick.

“Your Majesty,” she simpered, dipping into a low bow before straightening with a saccharine smile plastered on her painted lips. “Allow me to express my deepest gratitude towards you for allowing me an inclusive. This will surely thrill our readers over at the Daily Prophet.” 

Voldemort flashed her a charming smile, motioning for her to come closer. His eyes danced with keenness, his tone friendly and holding a note to it, as though he and the reporter were old friends sharing a secret, “I’m happy to oblige you, Miss Skeeter. You always do such a commendable job, after all.”

Harri eyed the blond witch with thinly hidden resentment, remembering all too well her coverage at the Triwizard Tournament. How she had twisted the truth, how she had painted it all to be Harri’s fault, made it appear as though she were an unstable, reckless child looking for glory and not content with the fame she already had. Her knuckles bled white from the pressure in which she held her glass, angrily tipping back it and draining the alcohol down her throat as that damned quick-notes quill poised itself above the floating notebook. If a human could puff up their chest and preen themselves like a bird, she was undoubtedly sure that Rita would be doing just that at the moment.

The reporter reached up to primly bounce one of her blonde curls, a self-satisfied smile pulling back her red lips even wider as she tittered in pride.

“Oh come now, you flatter me,” she leaned forward eagerly, holding a small mic between her hands, “Now tell us, what made you decide to take in the famous Harri Potter under your wing?”

Voldemort leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and putting on a rather believable show as if he were puzzling out an answer. A mask settled over his features, his eyes going unfocused for a second, a slight frown and furrowed brows. Of course, he knew his response, he was prepared for it, the emotions he forced upon his face just the steps he needed to go through to sell it.

When he spoke, it was slow, hesitant, grim, as though he didn’t take immense delight in the fact that he had finally acquired the Girl-Who-Lived, “As you are aware, Albus Dumbledore had been originally appointed as Harri Potter’s guardian. However, in light of recent circumstances, he is unable to fulfill such an important, and crucial, role in her life. After all, a teenage girl needs, now more than ever, a role-model, a stable parental figure, if you will, to turn towards for guidance. Seeing as how important she is to the wizarding community, it only felt right that I, the representative for all magical citizens in Britain, take her into my care.” 

The quill scribbled furiously as he spoke, the pages filling up. Rita clicked her tongue in false sympathy, her own eyes misting over as though the plight of Harri Potter were her own. When she spoke, her words were honeyed, cloying, sickly sweet, “Of course! The poor dear, having to deal with such instability in her life. Considering the recent information that has come forth about Dumbledore, it’s a wonder that he was even able to perform his duties as her guardian in the first place.”

Harri blinked owlishly at that, her spite towards the witch forgotten in the face of her words. ‘What information,’ she wondered in alarm, spine straightening as worry shone bright in her gaze. She ignored the way that Voldemort had glanced over at her in warning, trying to catch her eye before she could speak, cautioning her not to open her mouth.

She did so anyways, “What do you mean by “recent information”?”

Rita turned to stare at her, electric blue eyes glittering hungrily behind her jewel-encrusted glasses. It was an unexpected addition to her article, to have some words directly from the esteemed Harri Potter, but one she welcomed nonetheless, “Why, my dear, the fact that he was an alcoholic and of unsound mind.”

A chill ghosted through her at the false information, shocked that such libel was even being spouted in the first place. And, despite everything he had done, despite all that he had kept from her, despite his attempts to kill her, Harri still felt a shred of loyalty towards the ex-headmaster. A certain degree of fondness still prevalent in her for the old memories she had of him at her bedside, laughing at the disgusting flavours of Bertie Botts and firmly tucking her in.

“That’s a lie. He never drank. And he most certainly wasn’t crazy!”

The reporter rounded on her, her quill writing faster than the girl could speak. In her previous experiences with the redheaded witch, her temper was as fiery as her hair and it always added an extra flair to the articles.

“Oh you poor, poor, sweet girl. In such denial,” she quickly looked to the man on the throne, clicking her tongue and adding in a conspiratorial tone, “Trauma residual from abusive guardians can do that, especially to children.”

His eyebrow twitched slightly at his horcrux’s outburst, at the way she was so adamantly defending Dumbledore. In a way, he shouldn’t have been surprised-- she had always been a fiercely loyal little thing, even to those who had wished her harm. Voldemort’s hands tightened around the armrest, his gaze darkening at how quickly things were derailing in the interview. He attempted to communicate through their bond his displeasure, his wishes for her to just sit there and be silent, but it apparently only just fuelled the fire in her further. 

“I’m _not_ a child,” she seethed from her spot on the velvet bench, a rising darkness threatening to claw its way up her throat, vision dimming on the edges of her periphery. 

“But of course, dear. Tell me though, how do you really feel? After all, with the death of your parents, you very nearly ended up in the hands of the one suspected of leaking their whereabouts to You-Know-Who. And then to have to deal with something so ghastly as a suicidal alcoholic! At such a young age at that, too. Why I couldn’t even imagine, ” Skeeter goaded her, the mic floating persistently in the younger witch’s face, far too delighted in the anger burning in those green eyes, at the reactions she was getting.

Harri’s shoulders began to tremble, a sharp taste flooding her mouth at the fact that the reporter had even dared to drag Sirius into this. Even if he wasn’t truly her godfather, he was still her family, her tie to parents she would never know, her everything. The rational side urged her to calm down, that Skeeter was purposefully antagonizing her, was just attempting to get a rise out of her. But she just couldn’t bring herself to care. All she knew was that she wanted to make the blonde witch hurt for her lies, for slandering the memories of those she held dear. 

“He was found innocent of those charges,” she bit out through gritted teeth, struggling for composure. 

“Oh yes, I am well aware of that. But wasn’t that only due to a lack of circumstantial evidence? After all, considering his violent past record, as well as his family connections, it is entirely within the realm of possibility that he was an avid follower of the Dark Lord and was able to clean up his tracks,” Rita suggested slyly, attempting to commit the girl’s outraged face to memory, wishing she had brought a camera. 

Anger, cold fury, washed through her as her magic began to bubble under the surface of her skin, itching, begging for release, for vengeance to be sought against those insulting Sirius’s loyalty to her parents. Especially so considering their true killer was sitting next to her, that his real followers were in this very room, a mere few feet away. She tried to calm herself, to listen to the sharp sting of a warning that was colouring their bond, to remind herself that she was supposed to behave and not do anything that could upset the Dark Lord. ‘Screw it,’ she thought in hostility, ‘Screw him, screw her, screw it all.’ The flute in her hand began to quiver dangerously, vibrating with a tell of what was to come. Those green eyes narrowed and focussed solely on the smiling, simpering reporter in front of her, how she had the nerve to look to the Dark Lord, to not even recognise Harri as a threat or concern.

“Harri,” Voldemort warned lowly, dangerously soft, a whisper meant only for her ears.

His stare was fixed on her, on the tremors racking her slight frame, on the savage violence in her glowing eyes, the ticked muscle of her jaw. Her magic was almost palpable to him, a headiness in the swirls of darkness, at the allure of it, a signature so close to his very own. And while he might have encouraged it in any other situation, her bloodthirsty need for revenge, it wouldn’t do to direct it towards a member of the press. Not now, at least.

The champagne flutes on the dais shattered, a cacophony of sharp cracks as they failed to withstand her rising fury, forced to crumble under her will, to disintegrate in the face of something so wild and unrestrained. Rita gave a shriek of surprise as the shards fell at her feet, the golden liquid coating the floor, the wizards, her own dress. Harri barely heard the gasps of surprise and disgust from the Death Eaters in the background, barely felt the intent stares from those on the main floor looking up at the commotion. All she felt was the quickly dying wave of anger as a hand, heavy and vice-like, landed on her shoulder, squeezing in disapproval. She glanced up to meet crimson eyes, alight with exasperation. 

“My apologies, Rita,” Voldemort began slowly, not once breaking eye contact with Harri as he addressed the blonde witch.

She flinched under his stare, under the weight of his grip on her shoulder, being the first to look away in mortification at losing her temper, “It’s been an emotional day for Miss Potter so you must excuse her if she is feeling out of sorts. However, as you can see, this is what she has been reduced to under Dumbledore’s tutelage. But I can assure, I intend on correcting any and all of her _ill-mannered behaviours_.”

Harri opened her mouth with a stinging retort, to claim that the reporter had deserved it, that it wasn’t her fault that, no, she wasn’t ‘ill-mannered’ and that she didn’t appreciate being talked about as though she were a pet that needed to be housebroken. The fingers dug into the soft spot between the shallows of her collarbone and she winced, wisely deciding it wasn’t worth incurring his wrath further. With a wave of his hand, the shattered glass disappeared and the stickiness from the champagne, the nauseatingly sweet bite of the scent of alcohol, vanished from their clothes. 

* * *

* * *

Rita had, wisely, chosen to retreat after being dismissed by Voldemort, apparently unnerved by both Harri’s sudden burst of magic and by the look in his eyes that warned her to think twice about what she put in her article. The party had reluctantly resumed and was back to its lull of white noise and endless chatter, an orchestra of strings playing from an unknown spot down below. The dais was near silent, apparently even his Death Eaters understanding that it was best to remain still, remain quiet, when his mood turned foul. As she watched the masses below begin to dance, Harri had found herself almost wishing for that dark-haired witch in the revealing outfit to come back, if not to put him in a better mood so he would forget her little slip-up. 

She caught a blur of black as he had suddenly risen from his throne, towering above her with an unreadable look in his crimson eyes. He extended a hand to her, pale and elegantly shaped, and Harri figured it was more of a command rather than an invitation. She placed hers in his, using the steadiness of it to help herself up, his fingers curling in to encircle hers.

“Come,” he led her to the steps, her feet unsteady as he pulled her closer and down onto the ballroom floor.

Instead of guiding them out of the parlour and the party, as she had expected, Voldemort crossed into the heart of the action, the crowd parting for him as water does for oil. The song had ended, the dancers resetting their positions, and the Dark Lord steered her towards an empty spot on the shining golden floor. Confusion, wariness, trepidation overwhelmed her as his free hand returned to its earlier spot on the small nip of her waist, insistently slotting her against him and closing the empty space between their bodies. Harri blinked, mildly taken aback by his sudden contact, having half the mind to step out of his hold if it wasn’t for its unrelenting strength. 

“What are you doing?” she questioned, dumbfounded as the other partners on the floor shot them careful and attentive looks.

An eyebrow quirked, a smirk tugging on his plush mouth, his hand giving an experimental squeeze around her own, “Dancing, of course. It is a party after all, Harri.”

She opened her mouth to protest that she couldn’t dance to save her life, eager to escape the ballroom floor, to avoid the humiliation he was about to put her through, but the swell of a waltz abruptly began. In a sudden motion, he jerked them into moving and she had no choice but to comply. Her hand rose to place itself on his shoulder, to steady herself as her feet stumbled to keep up with his pace. An uninvited thought came to her mind that he was pulling her along as a puppet master would to his marionette, leading her to feel vaguely ill at the notion. 

The fingers at her waist curled possessively into her skin as he focused his gaze down at her, at the fragile girl in his arms, so small, so petite compared to him. She was busy staring at his chest as he guided them along to the proper steps, her weight almost nonexistent in his hold-- almost too easy to position. ‘How easy it would be to break her,’ an idle thought came to mind, a sudden awareness of how delicate her hands were in his, how fine the fingers, how thin the wrists. Voldemort supposed he should be angry with her for the little outburst, for the little stunt she had pulled, but he found himself unable to. After all, he should have foreseen Rita goading her, she was well known for that irksome habit. Plus, his horcrux had shown a further aptitude for wandless magic and it was hard to reprimand in the face of such potential. 

“I’m not angry,” he murmured softly, pulling her sharply to the left in a spin. Her dancing skills were truly dismal and he, mentally, added it to the list of things she would need to be taught.

The green-eyed girl finally let her gaze wander upwards from staring intently at the ouroboros medallion. ‘It’s truly unfair,’ she noted morosely as she stared up into his face, into its perfection. The aristocratic cheekbones, the definition of his jawline, the full velvet mouth. His dark lashes framing almond eyes with different hues of red swirling in them, the persistent wave of a curl falling just shy above shapely brows. He truly was a creature of beauty and when he spoke softly, when he held her so tightly, it made her remember her obsession, her yearning for him in her second year. It sometimes was too easy to forget his true nature, his violence, his cruelty when he seemed so human at times. She would forever curse the day that Lord Voldemort regained Tom Riddle’s face, bringing the memory of him back from the dead.

“You’re not?” Her tone was hesitant, as if he were lying and was ready to strike someone down in front of her.

When he flashed her a smirk, the left side tugging slightly higher than the right, and pulling her into a playful spin, she decided that he was in a good enough mood to, hopefully, answer some of her questions. It hadn’t escaped her, however, that the hand at her waist was drifting lower and she became hyper-aware of its heat as it trailed along the beginning curve of her hip. 

“Are you sure that it’s appropriate to be dancing with me like this? Considering that you’re now my guardian?” she questioned, tone pointed as her gaze bounced to some of the reporters lingering around the room’s edges. Truthfully, she was just looking for a reason for him to stop touching her, to stop distracting her. 

He laughed indulgently at her accusation, shaking his head in disbelief at how naive she still was. A taunting gleam entered his eyes, his smirk growing into a fully blown cheshire grin, “It’s just a dance, Harri.”

Voldemort suddenly yanked her closer to him, the hand at her back pushing her even further into him, slotting their bodies together in direct opposition to his words. He distantly registered the soft press of her chest against his, the heartbeat irregularly pounding through her dress, her expression of disorientation.

“Besides,” he bent down close to whisper, as though letting her in on a conspiracy, the biggest secret. “They will not write what I do not want them to. Every press article is screened before publication, either by myself or by Nott.”

Cold dread settled in her stomach and Harri found herself faced with the strangest urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Of course he would control the press, why wouldn’t he? After all, it wouldn’t do to have some unsavoury articles floating about. ‘The things I could tell them’ she thought spitefully as he turned them to the right. Maybe it was because she had one too many glasses of champagne that evening or perhaps it was his reassurance that he wasn’t feeling antagonistic towards her in the moment but Harri suddenly felt brave, her tongue a touch too loose, her thoughts a tad too free considering whose arms she was in.

“So, what the hell am I supposed to even call you now? Dad? Father? Your Majesty? My Lord?” 

It was hard to ignore his reactions. The fingers at her waist suddenly digging forcefully into the softness of her, the hand holding hers twitching at the words, the tension in his jaw, in the lines of his body. How those red eyes suddenly seemed black, desirous, as though he were imagining her willingly bending her knee and addressing him in reverence. Harri swallowed thickly, having the faintest idea that she had opened the cage unwillingly to a monster lurking within. 

“You may call me whatever you wish,” he finally said, slowly, as though he immediately wanted to take back his words and demand that she only refer to him in worship, “As long as we are in private. In public, however, it would be wise to show some respect.”

She nodded minutely at that, suddenly feeling at a loss for words, uncertain by the look in his eyes. He dipped her down suddenly and her fingers tightened on his arm at the unexpected motion, scarlet eyes fixated on the exposed column of her throat, on her mouth parted in surprise. Then he righted her again.

“Am I....do I,” Harri trailed off, finding difficulty in trying to string together the words, to voice her fears, her reservations. It had been gnawing at her all night, the fact that she was supposedly now his protege-- the fact that she was marked and claimed by him. It was a fear, a reality that she never thought would be possible for her, and it filled her to the brim with anxiety.

“I mean, do you expect me to take your mark?” she asked. 

Voldemort refused to remove his eyes from her, taking in her worry, alarm bright in her gaze and in her voice. It had been a tempting idea, one that he had considered multiple times-- to have her openly wear his brand on her arm. To forever impress upon her that she was his, that she belonged at his side. For the entire world to look upon her skin and tremble at the knowledge that their saviour was no longer theirs. 

“No, Harri. I do not. You will never bear the Dark Mark, not now. Not ever,” he finally said, recognising it as the truth as soon as it was spoken.

Yes, she would never be forced to endure the symbol of fealty upon her skin, not when so many already bore it. The girl before him was different, special, so unlike the common masses that it was blasphemy to even consider denoting her to standard stock, to just one of his countless acolytes. She was made from him, from the marrow of his soul, born from his power and destined to rise above the rabble. 

A coldness, a chill, ghosted through her, her limbs suddenly feeling heavy and her knees too weak. The look in his eyes, that rising hunger, the way they shone with a covetous thirst. How his grip had tightened around her. The traitorous thought from earlier came back to her, affirming her greatest fears, the circling theories that had kept her awake until the hours before dawn. He was never going to let her go. Even if she did escape, his eyes relayed all that she needed to know-- he would hunt her down to the ends of the earth until he found her again. 

She tried to swallow but her throat was too dry, too parched all of a sudden, the grip too constraining and their dance suddenly not as innocent. Distantly a clock chimed past midnight and Harri couldn’t help but wonder when it would be her turn to wake up from this nightmare she had found herself in. 


	35. A Coin and A Phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Just a few quick notes before you guys go off to read:
> 
> 1\. I changed some things around for the original Order members. I made it so Molly joined her brothers, Fabian and Gideon, in the first war as well as Arthur Weasley. And also Kingsley Shacklebolt because why not.
> 
> 2\. I was doing some chapter planning for this fic and having an opinion from you guys would be so helpful! Originally, this story was planned to have 4 arcs: The Hogwarts Arc, The Manor Arc (where we currently are), The Order Arc, and then the Aftermath. But to keep all 4 arcs in 1 fic would make this quite long so here are some ideas of what I can do:
> 
> A. Once we get to the Order Arc, start a new title so it will be split evenly into 2 arcs vs 2 arcs, making it easier to read and remember what chapter you last read + cut down on the number of chapters in this title.
> 
> B. Keep the first 3 arcs in this title and make the Aftermath arc its own separate title for who wish to read it since it'll be more of an Epilogue type situation.
> 
> C. Keep all 4 arcs in this one title 
> 
> I just want to do whatever is easiest for you guys to read and keep track of! Just let me know in the comments what you would all prefer and we can go from there.
> 
> As always, thank you so so so much for the kudos and all the love! <3 You are all amazing!  
> Enjoy! 💕

* * *

* * *

A few hours later and Harri found herself back in the newly repaired bedroom, Narcissa hovering about her and undoing all of the efforts that had been put into making her facade, her mask, believable. To say she was exhausted would be an understatement, her mind sluggish and limbs heavy. The Dark Lord had waltzed with her, though it was more of him forcefully pulling her along, guiding her to his will, for what seemed like hours and she had come to the rightful conclusion that she, undoubtedly, hated dancing. Green eyes lazily watched the Malfoy matriarch in the mirror, taking in the thinned lips and furrowed brows, the silence between the two women tense, heavy. Without conversation to distract her, the ache in her feet seemed more prevalent, the tightness in her calves sharper, the twinge of agony in shoulders, sore from being raised too long, stronger. Harri tried to stifle a yawn, the deft nimble fingers unbraiding her hair easing her closer to sleep, making it harder to resist the allure of its call.

Narcissa’s pale eyes briefly flitted up from her task to take in the tired girl seated before her, the shoulders slumping and those kohl-lined eyes starting to flutter closed. She had been watching the young witch throughout the evening, keeping a close eye on her after the mild shock she had received from the press’s appearance, and what had been observed was _disconcerting_ , to say the least. From the outburst that shattered the glasses to openly saying no to the Dark Lord to the clenched knuckles and grinding teeth, she had come to a fundamental truth about Harri Potter’s character-- the girl had a wicked temper that often seemed to get the best of her. The frown on her painted red lips deepened as she blindly searched for any more hairpins hidden amongst the auburn locks. It was a harsh reality but Narcissa Malfoy had been at her Lord’s side for years now, long enough to know that lesser men have been divined harsher punishments for slights less offending than Harri’s actions tonight. In fact, she could still vividly recall a man losing his wand hand for simply daring to critique the Dark Lord’s strategy, voicing some concerns about the risks in it. And yet, this girl remained unscathed, from what she could see at least, for defying him, for disobeying his orders.

Then, of course, there was the issue of how his touches always seemed to linger on her, as though he was possessed by a constant need to ascertain she was real, a solid form and not a figment of his imagination. The look that had been in his gaze when he first saw her walk in, how he had been eyeing her throughout the entire meeting as though he wanted nothing more than to swallow her whole. It was enough to make her shudder. The Malfoy matriarch could not claim to be a legilimens, to be able to peer directly into his mind, but it was easy enough to discern where his thoughts had been. The most unsettling truth was that, no matter how godlike he may seem, how invincible and omniscient he appeared, her Lord was like any man: weak in the face of the draws of flesh. And from the explicit stories regaled to her by her sister, recollections of her time spent in his bed, Narcissa was able to glean well enough that he was, by no means, a gentle lover or partner. Flashes of his hands at the younger witch’s waist, of how they seemed to roam without reservations, came to her mind and her fingers clenched in the red hair, a fierceness overcoming her. She was unaware of the nature of their relationship but she would be damned, her Lord or not, if she would sit by idly while he took advantage of a child without experience.

“Miss Potter,” she started slowly, trying to retrain the girl’s waning attention back to her. Narcissa supposed that she was expected to show some reverence to the girl, considering that she had just surpassed her on the hierarchical scale amongst her Lord’s ranks. 

“Harri,” the green-eyed witch mumbled sleepily, correcting the older woman.

She had always found it to be unnerving when people called her ‘Miss’, when they spoke to her with respect, after being known for most of her life as ‘girl’, ‘Harri’, or, frequently, ‘freak’. And having someone like Narcissa Malfoy bow her head, talk to her with such formality, made her stomach clench.

“Just ‘Harri’.”

“Harri,” Narcissa amended, spinning the vanity chair around and using magic to vanish the remaining traces of makeup off of the pale skin.

It was as though a veil had been lifted, reverting her back to a childish innocence that had been masked, concealed, by painted lips and lined eyes, “If anything ever upsets you, if you ever feel the urgent need to talk, please do not hesitate to come to me. It can be about anything and I promise you that whatever you say will remain between just us, one fellow witch to another. You are a guest in my home and now the charge of My Lord.”

She blinked up into the unflinching pale blue eyes, the vehemence in them, the fierceness, the honesty. It squeezed her heart in an uncomfortable way at how open the matron was being, at how kind her heart was. Vague images materialised of wild ginger hair pulling her into a tight embrace, shoving a plate full of food towards her and encouraging her to eat, knitting her a scratchy sweater long into the night so she wouldn’t feel left out on Christmas morning. Narcissa was different from Mrs. Weasely, Harri had decided, more reserved, more distant, more formal. But the sentiment was there all the same in those shapely hands, in the comforting arm about her shoulder, in the reassuring squeezes and the protective gleam in her gaze. Tears began to burn, to blur and obscure her vision as a small part of her felt intense guilt looking into the distinguished beauty of the older woman. ‘If only she knew what I was,’ her thoughts were full of remorse, of contrition at deceiving the mother who had so eagerly offered her assistance, her aid. Part of her wondered if she would retract it, remove those hands in disgust, if she ever learned that Harri was twisted, corrupted, a monster wearing the skin of a human and playing pretend. Acting out a charade, pretending to be good when something so revolting was housed within her. If only Narcissa learned that she was created from the most vile of acts, the most damning evil that could be committed against another human. 

Harri resolutely turned her head away, giving a small nod for fear of trying to speak. She just knew, from the way her throat was constricting and a lump forming in it, that her words would have failed her anyways. Narcissa began to undo the buttons at the back of the dress, helping her to stand on unsteady, aching feet to step out of the fabric pooling about the ground. Replaced by it was a nightgown, a sleeveless one of dark red silk, lace-trimmed and hitting just an inch or so above her knee. Despite the warmth of the room, she found herself shivering, all too eagerly slipping into the matching robe held out for her in the matriarch’s hands.

* * *

* * *

She awoke dazed, disoriented, with a suffocating weight on her chest that made it a struggle to breathe. With her mind still sluggish, still ladened with the residual effects of a dreamless sleep, it was only natural that her first thought, blinking in a dulled panic at the canopy above, was that she was dying. And the strangest thing about it was that she couldn’t bring herself to break down, to summon the energy to cry for help, to think more than a distant ‘Oh, this is it’-- the weight on her chest began to move, ripples of coiled muscle, a coolness against her exposed collarbones. 

Hoisting her head up, neck straining in the effort, she met golden eyes staring evenly into her own. An exasperated groan and she allowed herself to flop back down into the nest of pillows, her mind slowly waking, her body gaining control as the blood started to flow back into her limbs. 

_“Mornin’, Nagini,”_ she muttered out, her voice scratchy, hoarse from disuse and sleep. It was the first time since being taken that she could actually recall falling asleep, on her own free will, and in a bed. The first time she had slept so soundly surrounded by the comforting scent of sweet smoke and cinnamon. And it felt as though the Express had mowed over her, flattening her against the tracks, her legs beyond sore and feet smarting. 

_“Good morning, little one,”_ the snake burrowed tighter into the mound of her soft chest, apparently forgetting, or not caring, about how great her weight was on the thin girl.

A wheeze of air, a sharp groan, escaped her at the increase of pressure, having half a mind to tell the serpent to get off and go find somewhere else to sleep. However, her protests were forgotten by the sound of the bathroom door opening, a frown etching its way onto her face at realising that she wasn’t alone. Harri craned her neck at an angle that caused an acute strain in its muscle, those emerald eyes turning owlish at the sight of a Dark Lord sauntering out from the steamed room, hair damp and a towel hung loosely about his hips. If her mind had been slow before, it most definitely had ground to a complete halt by now, any coherent thought slipping away at the sight of his, mostly, naked body. 

She hadn’t meant to gawk, she would forever deny that she even did such a thing, but it was a jarring sight that she couldn’t tear her eyes from. Harri had seen very few male bodies in her life, her prior knowledge limited to Ron and the Weasley twins as they ran shirtless about the Burrow in the summertime-- but she had come to the conclusion that they were nowhere near as attractive, as perfect. He looked to be carved from marble, refined elegance just like the rest of him, and the strangest thought of a sculptor carefully, painstakingly, forming his body by hand came to her mind. He was unnaturally pale with sharp angles and lines of muscles that she never even thought could be on a human body. Truly a contradiction in the best of ways-- slim yet broad shouldered, muscular but not overly so. He reminded her of a snake, the way its strength was coiled under its skin, a testament to a hidden power, to a predacious nature. ‘Merlin be damned,’ her thoughts finally processed through their paused queue at the realization she hadn’t been able to find even one imperfection-- not a blemish, not a scar, not a mole, not _anything_ on his skin. Suddenly she could see why people were so enamored with him why Lavender made a nightly scrapbook from his images and why the dark-haired witch wanted something from him that was not entirely innocent in nature. 

A stray droplet of water from his damp hair started to drift down and she watched its path, a woman possessed. It had skittered around the contours of his body, past the smooth planes of his chest, past the definition of his abdomen, past the prominent v-line of his hips, past the beginning dip of the towel- she suddenly shot up in mortification, displacing a malcontent Nagini. 

_“What are you doing here?!”_ she hissed out, English forgotten in her sudden panic, in her sudden shock at seeing him this way. If she hadn’t been awake before this moment, she certainly was now.

Voldemort quirked an eyebrow, taking far too much pleasure in her flushed face, at her entirely too naive response of seeing him half-naked. If someone were to accuse him of purposefully lingering in the doorway, allowing her to look at him uninterrupted, of purposefully putting his body on display for her when he could have so easily brought a change of clothes into the bathroom with him-- well, they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Her reaction was too tempting, too delicious, too appealing to pass up the opportunity to do so. The dilation in her emerald eyes, the shortness of her breath, the way she seemed so lost, so adrift, desiring something that she couldn’t quite yet understand. It was _glorious_.

“These are my chambers, Harri, or did you forget? I can come and go as I please,” he stated simply, as though it were the final truth of the world.

He sauntered past her rigid form tucked into his bed, disappearing into the walk-in closet with a smug smirk tugging on his lips. The briefest thought to purposefully drop his towel came to my mind, to just push her a bit closer to the edge, but he decided to show some pity. He was, after all, a _merciful_ Lord and the poor girl was as bright as the red silk she was dressed in.

 _“I-I. But-What. No,”_ she floundered for coherent words, viscerally feeling the effects of her mortification, of her blush as heated fanned brightly from her face.

It felt as though her heart was about to rupture, her throat constricted and too parched, tension in her shoulders she didn’t even realise she was consciously holding. Somehow, she had forgotten the room she was in was his, that the bed that she had decided smelled rather nice, comforting, was his scent. It only further stoked the flames of her embarrassment upon it all clicking into place. Vaguely, she wondered if this was the beginning of Stockholm Syndrome.

Nagini pulled herself up from the duvet to scent the air in curiosity. The girl’s heart rate was pounding like a rabbit’s, her body heat increasing and there was something else lingering about her that betrayed her interest, her natural fascination. ‘It appears that she is as enamored with Master’s body as the others are,’ she thought idly as she curled herself around her hatchling’s torso, somehow approving of the idea. 

_“Your heart rate is elevated,”_ she added slyly, tongue flicking out across her cheek in light-hearted jest.

Harri blinked down in embarrassment at the snake, groaning and hiding the evidence of her humiliation, the bright red of her face, in her hands. She sent a wordless prayer to an unknown god for the ground to open up, to swallow her whole before she had to endure it any longer. Even the snake seemed intent on betrayal, on torturing her, on teasing her at her expense,

 _“Nagini! Please,”_ she begged, knowing the Dark Lord had heard it all judging by the amount of smug pleasure that coloured their bond. For the millionth time since his rebirth, she cursed him for ever regaining Tom Riddle’s face.

* * *

* * *

Much to her immense relief, he had come out a few minutes later fully clothed in a white button-up shirt and charcoal trousers. The knowing glint in his eyes, however, when he looked at her still huddled on the bed made her want to slap him, to kick him. Harri had tried her best to banish the images on him naked, trembling in the earth and covered in white filaments, a sight she was quite sure that she wasn’t meant to see. But apparently, her mind quite enjoyed being spiteful and felt it was the appropriate time, after seeing him half-naked, to conjure back up the memory. It had appeared everyone was against her, the snake, Voldemort, even her own conscious. A mental note was made to beg someone later on to obliviate her, perhaps Narcissa or Snape if he was feeling generous.

“Come eat, Harri,” she glanced up in alarm, pulled from her thoughts as an array of breakfast appeared on the side table between the two armchairs.

A pang of guilt flooded her at the thought of Zivvy, wondering where the elf had gone off to after she had sent it on a mission to contact Sirius. 

Voldemort was already seated and she rose, on shaky legs, to take the unoccupied chair next to him. He was drinking black tea, she noticed, overly steeped and without cream or sugar. Heathen,’ her thoughts were idle as she picked up her own cup, pouring in an unhealthy amount of sweetener into it. It hadn’t escaped her that he was watching her in mild disgust and alarm, her eyes narrowing at him in a challenge for him to say something, to critique her for her preferences. Having picked his battle, however, his red eyes drifted to the fireplace and he willed the flames to life. ‘Prick, he really doesn’t use his wand often, does he?’ 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, him sipping his tea and not eating, her picking at a flaky croissant that he had personally placed on her plate. The entire situation felt oddly _domestic_ and she wasn’t sure what she preferred-- this or his anger, his wrath. At least when he was acting out in fury, it was easier to predict his next moves, to know the proper way to handle it. A violent exchange of action and reaction. It was their usual cycle and one that they both knew all too well on how to play. _This_ , whatever this was, was far from it and it left her feeling queasy, unsure. 

“We made the front page,” he hummed absentmindedly, as though already expecting that they would.

He tossed a copy of the Daily Prophet onto her lap, greedily drinking in her expressions, her dismay. He would have been lying through his teeth if he said he hadn’t been looking forward to her feedback come morning when she would finally see their picture, to see how she belonged at his side, at how right they had looked standing together with her in his arms. 

The nausea she felt earlier came back tenfold and with a vengeance as she stared, rigid and in horror, at their moving photographs. She truly did look like a child playing the pretense of an adult, no amount of makeup or tight dresses could hide that fact. Harri watched as the afterimage of herself, eyes wide in panic, in shock, curled into Voldemort’s side as though she was hiding behind her mother’s skirts. She watched as the hand possessively landed on her waist, pulling her closer, the triumph in those unblinking crimson eyes, the cutting smile that held too many teeth. How he seemed so much taller, so much larger, than her, how it was so clear who was in control. They always said a picture was worth 1,000 words but this one screamed a million. She ended up tossing it to the floor, unable to stomach it any longer, to stand the physical evidence of her weakness, of her betrayal to everything she held dear. To see his claim on her, forever concreted in ink and photographs.

“They won’t rise to your bait,” she protested finally, squaring her shoulders and meeting his gaze with vehement assurance, “The Order is mostly disbanded anyways.” 

Voldemort blinked twice at her in mild surprise, a cunning smirk replacing the shock as he leaned forward towards her, clicking his tongue in mock approval. “Well well, look who has been secretly paying attention and is more aware than she lets on?”

He watched her bristle at the double-edged compliment, the words holding both praise and an insult to her character. Amusement warmly filled him, both at her reaction to being depreciated but also at her ignorance of the world, of how war worked. She truly didn’t believe that the Order would move to get her back, that he couldn’t draw the roaches, the scum, the betrayers out from every dark corner they had found refuge in. That innocent belief of hers was almost offending, a crime in of its own, one that made him far too ravenous at the thought of tainting it, of corrupting it. 

“But of course, Harri,” he began slowly, smile fading as he steepled his fingers, “That is where your naivety works against you, I’m afraid. They will come scurrying out from the shadows, desperate to reclaim you as a mantle for their war now that Dumbledore is incapable. And when they do, you can rest assured that I will thoroughly eradicate them-- no matter their age or levels of involvement.”

She blinked in unease at him, at his words, at how sure he was they would do something as reckless as openly move against him. Part of her hoped they did, that the Order would put up a fight, that they found the courage to oppose him and make his life, his claims of legitimacy, even more unstable. But then part of her vainly wished for them not to, for them to stay safe, stay hidden, to not risk their lives and allow anyone else to die in her name. Harri’s fingers dug into the plush armrest of the chair, trying to ground herself, to not be unnerved by the passion, the flame of a promise in those crimson eyes. He meant it, was hellbent on destroying everyone she cared for the second they decided to come forth publicly. Even with his promise of not personally harming those she cared for, there were too many in the organization that she didn’t know, too many she couldn’t lay a personal claim to. And it was an undeniable fact that it would be his followers doing most of the fighting, further nullifying his vow. She felt like retching, dry heaving at the thought. 

“Come,” he suddenly rose from his seat, downing the last dregs of the bitter black tea in his cup before tilting his head towards the door.

She stared dumbfounded at his command, at him retreating to the study, and she wondered in trepidation of what was waiting for her. Deciding she had little choice but to obey, she followed slowly after him, slipping into his shadow as the croissant was left half-eaten on her plate and their moving photograph abandoned on the floor. 

* * *

* * *

At precisely 8 am in the morning, not a minute afterwards and not a minute before, was when the morning post was delivered. It was a familiar routine for many, a daily ritual to their mornings, as they blearily purviewed the recent news over their coffee and trying to fight off the lingering pulls of sleep. And ever since ‘Marvolo Gaunt’ had risen to power, it could be said that the readership of the Daily Prophet had expanded astronomically, partly due to his charisma and partly due to his looks. Most of wizarding Britain was captivated by their new Sovereign, by the mystery of him, by the intrigue and the Prophet was unanimously decided to be the best place for information, for exclusives. 

And so when the morning’s news had arrived with the bold headline of “Harri Potter Change of Guardianship to His Royal Majesty”, it naturally elicited different reactions. For some, it was one of happiness to see their leader plastered on the front page and for the famous saviour of their world to be in such capable hands. For others, it sparked a moment of jealousy seeing the redheaded girl cling to their object of fascination and adoration. And for others, it was a moment of indifference, a quick thought of ‘They look nice together’ or ‘Good for her’, before flipping to the sports section to see who had won in the last Quidditch finals.

But in number 12 Grimmauld Place, the headline was a point of contention, of horror, of despair. Sirius Black had found the paper waiting for him, as usual, next to a cup of coffee and an English spread of a breakfast. He had expected to see an article talking about a new policy recently implemented or some interview about what the pompous man did in his free time. As such, one can easily imagine his surprise, his shout of dismay, when he saw the daughter of his dearly departed friends in the arms of an incognito Dark Lord.

Sirius reached for the paper, trembling fingers tightening around the edges, crinkling it, as his mind temporarily froze over. He distantly wondered if it was possible to have a heart attack from shock, to know if wizards could even die in such a muggle way, and considered the possibility that he was about to find out. Grey eyes obsessively drank in the article before him, scanning and rescanning, trying to determine if this had been an elaborate hoax or a cruel nightmare his mind had conjured up.

“No no no no no. Fuck!” he chanted under his breath, heart rate spiking and knees turning weak, resorting to yelling to relieve some of the tension in him, some of the surreal disbelief.

In the background, he could hear the steps of someone rushing down the grand staircase, his name being called in alarm, the slamming open of a door. But his throat felt too constricted, unable to swallow, to move, as a hand landed on his shoulder in panic. Everything felt blurred, obscured, slowed, as the image of his goddaughter curling into the Dark Lord’s side superimposed itself on his closed lids. The insistent afterimage of that large hand spanning her waist, of slotting her body against his, the smug glint in those damnable red eyes, the cutting smile-- it all refused to leave him in peace. 

“He has her, Moony,” he finally managed to bite out, voice containing heavy amounts of bewilderment, an undercurrent of anger, “The bastard has her.”

Behind him, he could hear the slight breathes, the words being spoken in a rapid whisper as Remus read over the article at record speed. The shaking knees finally gave way and Sirius fell, clumsily, into the wooden chair. Fear gripped him, his mind racing as he tried to understand _how_ it could have happened. All he knew was that Dumbledore had gone missing and their spy, Snape, ‘The sniveling coward’ a thought supplied venomously, had as well. But as far as he was aware, Harri had been at the Burrow for Christmas, Remus and himself scheduled to arrive to celebrate the New Year with the ginger bunch. So how the hell did she end up in the Dark Lord’s clutches?

A soothing hand returned to land heavily on his shoulder, the thumb of it rubbing insistent circles into the bone in an attempt to calm him down. The voice was grim, as though he couldn’t quite believe the article either despite the proof that was in the form of a moving photograph, “I know, Padfoot. I know.”

A tremor racked his shoulders and he tensed the, shrugging off the hand angrily to whirl around in his seat, looking up into a scarred face. Terror was reflected clearly in the forest green eyes that met his, devastation bright pinpoints. 

“How the hell did this even happen?!” desperation gave an edge to Sirius’s voice, rising in volume to match his mounting inner turmoil.

When no answer came, he roughly scrubbed his hands over his face, trying his best to ignore the guilt that threatened to overwhelm him, consume him, render him useless and make him reach for the bottle of whiskey hidden far away on the top shelf. It was a crushing realisation to come to, the fact that he had failed at his one job. That he broke his promise to keep the only daughter of those dearest to him safe, out of harm’s reach. Instead, she was in the Devil’s lair, at the tender mercy of the wolves. Incompetence, a crushing defeat, a complete and utter catastrophe. 

“Lily and James would never forgive us,” he bemoaned quietly, something dark, something black, twisted around his wretched heart, threatening to shatter and squeeze it until it stopped beating. It was a sickening feeling of heartache, one that he felt viscerally in his stomach, in the way it clenched.

Another beat of silence ensued, a rustling in the background, before Remus finally spoke in a quiet, reserved tone, “Perhaps...this is how we redeem ourselves and earn back their forgiveness.”

The click of something metallic being placed onto the wooden table made his hands retreat from his face, a disagreeable feeling overwhelming him at the sight of a gold coin sitting innocently before him. An impression of a phoenix, rising up with its wings spread magnificently, glinted, bringing with it a whirl of too many emotions. Yearning, resentment, sorrow, hope, the coin was a pipedream that represented a bittersweet past. He made no move for it as memories, long forgotten and suppressed, came back unbidden. 

“Where did you get that from?” he finally asked, voice equally as quiet, as timid, as unsure.

The werewolf hovered by his shoulder, voice turning wistful as his eyes refused to budge from the medallion, “I held onto it as a memento. For old time’s sake.”

Sirius reached to grasp the hand at his shoulder, shaking fingers landing on equally trembling ones, their tips cold with fear, with distress. He hadn’t seen one of those medallions since the first war, since he was just a young kid fighting alongside his friends in the pursuit of justice. Since he had proudly declared himself a ‘freedom fighter’, a testament to his naivety and false bravado afforded to him by his youth. Since then he had lost 2 of his closest, most dearest, companions in the quest for enlightenment, for a better world. 

“We can’t, Moony,” he tried to argue, to find reason. Too many had been lost in the first war, too many finding a place in the void, too many leaving behind loved ones and families of their own. True, they had pushed him back but at what cost? And it wasn’t even _them_ that had managed to defeat the Dark Lord. 

His grey eyes flickered back over to the moving image of a girl, a girl so familiar to him yet also a stranger. The makeup, the dress, everything about her seemed less like Harri Potter, less like an echo of his beloved Lily and James. It was a child, an infant, that they had propped up to be their saviour, placed on a pedestal for all the world to see, kept her in their reserves as a wild card should the need ever arise again. And they just lost her. It made him sick, ill, like he wanted to retch.

“We have to, Sirius. They are our only hope to get her back. And we _need_ Harri to defeat him. It’s her destiny,” Remus advocated for his case, a bitterness and sting in the truth of his words.

Sirius turned back to the gold coin, heart lead in his chest and his shoulders suddenly heavy from the unseen weight of responsibility. So many had finally found peace in the aftermath, had settled down and moved on with their lives. Molly and Arthur had the family they so desperately wished for, Kingsley had carved a spot out for himself in the government, Minerva had followed through with her passion for teaching. And he was about to ask them to jeopardise that security, that peace, to throw it all away once again in the name of justice, of restoring the scales of balance. And as much as it pained him to acknowledge it, the truth truly was that they would need Harri to win this war, especially now that Dumbledore had disappeared. It made him want to laugh, to spit in the face of fate, to curse it to the end of time for even daring to place a child, a girl not even in her majority yet, at the heart of it all, at the mantle. They were going to rely on her to lead them into this war, to rally their people, to inspire hope where none was left.

“Remus,” he felt beyond conflicted, his soul, his morality, his conscience being split in two.

The knife laying beside his abandoned breakfast, sharp and suddenly wicked-looking, was placed shakily into his open hand. Sirius stared down at it numbly, the cool metal of it disconcerting, its weight crushing. 

“We _have_ to, Sirius. Call them and they will come,” Remus’s tone was uneasy, as though he, himself, was trying to find the courage to believe in his own words, in his own convictions.

The grey-eyed man curled his fingers around the handle of the blade, knuckles bleeding white from the pressure. He tried, in a last-ditch effort, to find a valid enough cause, moral grounds, to say no, that they weren’t doing this, that they weren’t going to start another war. But part of him rebelled against that idea, the side of him arguing that they needed to fight dominating the side that pleaded with him to remain passive. They needed, _he_ needed, to get his goddaughter back, to ensure she was safe and far from the red-eyed monster that had emerged from the shadows. With a grimace and a sharp hiss, he pressed the serrated edge into his palm, blood welling profusely along the fresh line. Before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed the coin into the weeping hand, the metal heating up in his grip. A thrill, a rush of exhilaration, the vaguest notions of foreboding swept through him as the phoenix became animated, flapping its wings and looping about the medallion’s surface. 

It was time for the Order of the Phoenix to be reborn. 


	36. A Gilded Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> This chapter was actually inspired by a thought JingleBat had in one of the comments! They had asked to see how Harri would react to having new clothes and this is was such an excellent opportunity to do some character study that I couldn't pass it up! So thank you, JingleBat, for comment and I hope you particularly enjoy it 💕
> 
> You guys are so amazing 💕 Thank you so much for taking a chance with this fic!!

* * *

* * *

Harri had followed the Dark Lord into the dimly lit study, puzzling over the fact that nothing atrocious greeted her, as she had expected, nor that he wasn’t stopping. The ache in her legs morphed into a burn as she hurried after him, struggling to keep up with his strides, and frowning in bewilderment as he approached a door. In all of her time spent in this room, she had never seen that doorway before, wedged inconspicuously between the tall bookshelves, and had come to the conclusion that it had not been there prior. Crimson eyes glanced over a shoulder, an unreadable look that made them appear darker in the shadows, as though he were confirming that she was keeping up. Pale fingers had curled around the intricate silver knob, pushing the heavy oak inwards on its hinges and-- she gaped in confusion.

The glimpse of a four-poster bed greeted her, almost obscene in its size and grandeur. It was beautiful, no doubt about it, with ornate flowers and scrolls carved into the frame, the wood enchanted to be a glimmering gold and white gossamer curtains draped luxuriously at each corner. A white quilted headboard was contrasted by an assortment of pale blue, gold and cream pillows, far too many to be considered necessary or essential. Harri glanced uneasily at Voldemort, trying to discern whose room this possibly was, trailing in only after he had tilted his head in a nonverbal cue for her to follow. 

Like the bed had indicated, the rest of the room was beautifully done, a testament to wealth and opulence. High windows, double-paned and encased in blue silk drapes, let in natural light that further highlighted the intricate gold crown molding on the vaulted ceilings. It vaguely reminded Harri of something from the Rococo era, obscene in its elaborate detail and making her head spin. The entire room was massive, a touch smaller than the Dark Lord’s, light and delicate where his was dark and heavy. 

“Your personal chambers,” he stated softly from behind her, hovering at her shoulder and feeling a swell of pride at how taken off guard she seemed, how enamoured and doe-eyed she was.

The idea had come to him a few days ago when he was debating about the ways he could start to foster some trust, some faith, in their relationship and he figured that there was a rather simple solution. As she was made from him, from his soul, from his marrow there surely had to be some similarities in their personalities-- she must value having her own space, as he did, and probably took immense pleasure in beautiful things, in luxury, as he also did. And, judging from the starstruck gleam dancing in her eyes, he had been correct. While there had been some adjustments made to the room, purely in the name of security, he figured that she would still be delighted with it.

“Mine?” she echoed, completely dumbfounded and for a loss of words, eyes jumping from the ivory brocade chaise lounges to the marble fireplace to the two doorways that indicated there were even more apartments than she had initially thought. It was a room fit for royalty, for aristocracy-- for all the things she surely was not.

“For you to destroy at your own leisure, of course. Should you ever feel the need to do so,” he added coyly, hands dropping to her shoulders and giving her a light push forwards in encouragement for exploration of the other rooms.

Voldemort watched as she stumbled about in uncertainty, choosing to remain in his spot at the base of the grand bed, his self-satisfaction nearly overflowing, overbrimming. The possessive beast in him, the one that seemed to arise whenever in her presence, was content, swishing its tail and nearly purring, eager to show off its capabilities to care for her. To prove that he could be nurturing, kind, benevolent. In his past experiences, women tended to love being showered with gifts, especially ones that came from him, and he figured that she must be no different. And if showing her a peek of the life awaiting her, of the affluent comfort he could give, could convince her that being by his side would be pleasurable, then he was not above flaunting his abilities to do so.

Harri crossed into a never-ending expanse of a closet tentatively, an overhead light magically flickering to life as she entered. What greeted her were rows of dresses, formal robes, expensive-looking things that proudly broadcasted their expense, their price tag. Even the more simple of ones appeared to be cut from luxurious fabric and painstakingly tailored. She let her pale hand, small and nervous to even touch such things, trail over them, eyeing the drawers that, undoubtedly, held even more clothing, the jewels glinting brilliantly. Her feet carried her to a set of black pearls, luminous in their shine, gaze turning unfocussed as she felt their coolness, their weight, their perfectly smooth surfaces. 

‘It’s all for me,’ her thoughts were slow, hindered by a dazed stupor. Distantly, she could recall her Aunt’s sharp voice warning her not to touch things in the store, a visceral memory of being slapped when she was found with Petunia’s pearls in her grasp. She could still vividly remember that day, having been possessed by the sight of them when she was tasked with cleaning the master bedroom. An 8-year-old girl drawn to their splendor, their opulence, having only ever seen them at a distance around the blonde woman’s thin neck. Her cheek had smarted for days afterwards, an angry red discoloration that made her afraid to ever even look at them again. The black pearls were forcefully tossed back into their velvet box, hands violently retracting as though they had burnt her. 

She spun slowly to look back down the rows of clothes, the strangest thought overcoming her that these were all made, all tailored, for _her_. Not some hand-me-downs that were tattered and too large on her, not some castoffs that weren’t even meant for a girl, not something she had to roll up ten times over just not to trip or to see her hands. These were all new, every single one. A pang of guilt, a sour taste in her mouth. A mocking voice telling her that an ugly little thing like her, a mere maid, a freak, should be content with her lot in life and to be lucky to have her cousin’s old clothes. Harri fled from the closet, unable to stomach being in the room any longer.

A frown etched its way onto his features feeling her discontentment, her sudden wave of disgust, of contrition. He had made his way over to pick up an original Faberge egg on the mantle, fingers tightening around it and threatening to shatter it, to erase the rare artifact from existence. Had he done something to upset her? Did she not like the clothes? Was she snubbing them and his efforts to please her? Crimson eyes narrowed, slowly setting the porcelain back onto its stand before it could suffer abuse from his rising irritation, his feelings of earlier pleasure quickly becoming overshadowed. ‘The ungrateful little brat,’ his thoughts were full of venom as he watched her trail out from the closet, her delicate features waned and pinched. The notion of the dungeons came back to him, his lips pulled back into a sneer as he briefly considered it. There was an appeal, after all, in locking her away down in the damp earth if she was content to be this unappreciative of his time, of his attempts.

“What do you think, Harri,” he questioned, his tone holding a biting edge, a testament to his aggravation, a warning for her to tread carefully. If she wished to make her complaints known about the room, had no reservations to critique it, then he would have none as well to put her in a holding cell until she could afford him some gratitude. 

She sank down on the edge of the plush mattress, the downy top of it bending under her weight, as she glanced about the room in disorientation, in bewilderment. His threatening question had escaped her, her mind running with too many thoughts of how she didn’t deserve this. How she was overstepping her boundaries, how she was being placed at the center of all of this luxury when others would never even know such things. Images of the broom closet under the stairs came to mind, with its sliding grate and lack of light, of the spare bedroom that could barely fit a mattress and a closet. Harri found herself wishing for them, for the smallness and intimacy of her old life, of the comfort they provided by allowing herself to remain small, out of the way, out of sight. Here, she felt too on display, too vulnerable, taking up too much space and making herself a nuisance. No matter how pretty the bedroom was, no matter how grand, she didn’t fit in among the finery and large windows, among the endless clothes and sparkling jewels.

Green eyes finally glanced up, unsettled, confused, voice reserved as she struggled for the right words, “It’s just….a lot.” 

Voldemort leaned off the mantle, her words, the hesitance and guarded air about her throwing him off-kilter. There was something more holding her back rather than just simply disliking the room, the clothes, that much was clear to him now. With all of the subtlety of a skilled legilimens, he probed at her mind while she was still distracted, her attention distant. Images of a broom closet, dimly lit and hazy with dust, materialised before him and painting a confusing picture. ‘Why, now, is my little horcrux thinking of a closet of all things?’ he mused, mulling over it and abruptly withdrawing before she could become wise to the fact he was prying about her thoughts. A mental note was made to investigate it further, to puzzle over its meaning, when he had the opportunity to do so. Perhaps Snape would be useful and have some insight, seeing as how apparently close he was to the girl. But for now? Now all he needed to do was to make sure she was content with her chambers, with him, with his efforts to extend an olive branch. 

With long strides, the Dark Lord crossed over the grey wood flooring to stand before her, hand darting out to lightly, gently, tilt her chin up towards him.

Scarlet eyes met emerald as he stared down into the warring conflict in her gaze, voice confident in an attempt to ease her unsettled nature, "You are my _horcrux_ , a product of my magic, of my marrow, an extension of myself. Something as precious, as rare, as you deserves to live in luxury and not squalor. Do not allow yourself to be fooled into thinking that you are lesser because you are _not_.”

Harri blinked up at him in wide-eyed surprise, trying to process his words, the ones he had spoken as though they were the final and utmost truth of the world. There was such conviction, blazing and adamant, in his gaze that she found it hard to maintain level contact with him, her stomach suddenly flipping and heart skipping over a beat. He was so sure of her worth, of her importance that it was jarring, disconcerting. In her bewilderment, it almost escaped her notice that this was the first time, apart from that one encounter in their shared dreams, that he had verbally claimed her to be a horcrux, to be his. An unbidden shiver passed through her, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and she wasn’t entirely sure of what it meant nor if she cared to find out. 

Red eyes broke the connection first to land possessively on the scar that had started it all. Their story, their connection, everything was owed to that little lightning bolt half obscured by her auburn hair. He was reluctant to let go of her, to release her from his hold, but he did so anyways after a few seconds had passed. After all, he had another surprise that would, hopefully, rectify any misgivings she was having about accepting his gifts. A sharp snap and a small cage, draped in velvet fabric, appeared a few feet behind him, his hand cupped and extended for her to take it. Voldemort savoured the warmth of their contact as she slipped her delicate fingers into his, vastly delighted as she allowed herself to use him, to lean on him once more, to accept his support.

Widened eyes were glued to the covered cage, an indulgent smirk on his plush mouth as he guided her over to it, “Let it be said that Lord Voldemort will always reward good behaviour. Despite your little outburst in front of Miss Skeeter, you still performed rather admirably last night Harri.” 

She let her hand slip from his, heart rate elevating, spiking, at what might be concealed under the fabric. An uneasy glance towards him, trying to ignore the spreading warmth in her chest at his praise, before he nodded in permittance. Her fingers trembled, in both anticipation and excitement, as they curled into the covering. She tore it away hastily to reveal amber eyes blinking slowly up at her, a beak chirping excitedly and great wings flapping. 

“Hedwig!”

A rush of elation, of pure joy, of animated bliss swept through her as she hurried to undo the cage’s lock, the owl good-naturedly pecking at her fingers in the process. Tears sprang into the corners of her eyes, clinging stubbornly to the lashes as she lifted the bird onto her arm, face burrowing into the softness of its snowy feathers. In the whirlwind of the past few days’ events, she had forgotten about her faithful companion, her truest friend that saw all sides to her life. The fame and the mistreatment, her existence as both ‘Harri Potter’ and, during the summer, ‘Girl’ or ‘Freak’. So great, so immense, was her joy that Harri didn’t even think to question how Voldemort had acquired the owl that she had left in Hagrid’s care, how he had managed to get her back, or when he had found the time to do so.

“Thank you,” she rushed out, not even caring that she had just thanked the Dark Lord for something, by all accounts, that was hers already to begin with.

Hedwig trilled noisily on the perch of her forearm and she found herself laughing a bit, smile growing when she realised how much she had missed the sound. 

He towered over her, watching in appraisal, in approval, at the redhead witch’s reunion with her pet, at her willingness to openly thank him. It was almost humourous at how the smallest of things could move her to tears, to make her tremble with happiness. After all, she was standing in a bedroom that any right-minded aristocrat would go weak in the knees for, with a closet that most witches could only possess in their dreams, and yet it was the owl, one that didn’t cost him even a sickle or knut to procure, that moved her. 

“Of course,” he started slowly, moving closer to her crouched form on the ground, eyes glinting with obsession as he drank in her carefree smile.

How often he had seen it directed at others, in memories he had viewed, at the party towards the Malfoy heir. And even if it was being aimed towards the owl on her arm, the fact that _he_ was the one to induce it by proxy was enough of a feat-- at least for now. Something dark blossomed in his chest, writhing in delight, in self-congratulation, at the notion that he had finally seen this side to Harri Potter, a side she so readily showed to her friends, to those she trusted. He had just proven that they weren’t as privileged as they believed themselves to be, that he, too, could elicit these reactions in her. That he finally had the same experience as everyone else. They weren’t special. But, then again, neither was he. 

That delight turned into hunger at the realisation he wanted more. It was a truth he was keenly aware of, a flaw to his character, one that had marked his childhood and one that pushed him to steal from the others at Wool’s, to hoard their tattered belongings in his own measly trove. The matter of the fact was that Voldemort had never been content in sharing his things, in having the same as everyone else, in blending in with the masses. He needed to prove his distinction from the rabble in all regards, from his possessions to his appearance to even his experiences. And as he watched the redhead on the ground before him, his horcrux, his girl, the notion that he wanted, _needed_ , to see all facets of her took firm root within him. He craved to see those parts of her that she had never shown to anyone else, to be privy to experiences, any and all, that she had yet to have, to claim that he knew Harri Potter as intimately as he knew himself. It was an intense urge, overwhelming that gnawed the inside of his chest raw, that demanded that he show the world their saviour, their champion, was no longer theirs to claim. It was a toxic desire that sang for him to corrupt her, taint her, reform her in his image and to make it so she was no longer ‘The Girl-Who-Lived’ but a special version, a shadow that only he was privy to. 

“A witch needs her familiar, after all. Consider it a late Christmas present and encouragement for your future cooperation,” he mused under his breath, trying to repress the damning thoughts, the swirling darkness threatening to overthrow his willpower.

He tried to reason one step at a time, not to rush, not to be rash, not to push too much. After all, they had an eternity together and that time was of no consequence. The Dark Lord forced himself to retreat from her, from hovering above her and staring insistently down at her small frame, from drinking in the bright glee in those too-green eyes, in the smile splitting that rosebud mouth. Instead, he wandered towards the window, deeming it to be an acceptable distance between them, to collect and reign in his emotions.

“I should warn you, however,” crimson eyes fixed themselves on the white, snow-covered expanse of the manicured lawn. He could see her reflection in the pane, still crooning with the owl on her arm, and allowed his gaze to land on it, “She will not be able to deliver letters.”

Harri’s happiness, the floating sensation, came to a crashing halt, sputtering out like a flame doused in frigid water. One of her first thoughts was that Hedwig meant freedom, the ability to get messages to those she cared for, to assure them she was alive and to caution them against doing anything too rash. That, maybe, he finally was allowing her a show of faith for her obedience, an opportunity to prove herself. A chance that she would be lying if she said she hadn’t been intent on abusing. But, as always, he was thinking far too many steps ahead, outmaneuvering her at every turn. A bitterness coated her tongue as she returned Hedwig to the cage, heart leaden in her chest and beating a touch too dully. Harri struggled to keep her face impassive, to not show her despondency so clearly at having her plans crumble before her eyes. Her gaze drifted from the snowy owl and back onto him, his figure severe, imposing, sharply contrasted against the watery winter sun streaming through the tall windows.

“If she tries, I’m afraid she will not get past the wards at the property line. And speaking of wards,” he very nearly chuckled to himself, the impulse to do so almost overtaking his discipline.

So palpable was her dismay, her resentment, her frustration that he had guessed correctly in what the owl had represented for her, what her plans had been, “This room is rather…..let’s say, _well-equipped_. Only those who you give permission to can enter, save for myself, Nagini and Narcissa, of course. Though I would highly recommend you think carefully, Harri, about who you let in. However, should anything go awry, do not fear. I will know right away, after all.” 

For the first time since entering the bedroom, she suddenly became aware of the magic dancing across her skin, humming faintly in the background and thrumming in time with her pulse. Harri glanced towards the door in horror, his words and tone not slipping by unnoticed. ‘He’ll know,’ her thoughts were alarmed, ‘He’ll know whoever comes in here.’ She recalled him threatening Draco, spurred on by her relationship to the boy, and her stomach clenched tightly. As though it wasn’t bad enough that he was, in a roundabout way, threatening those she cared for, he was now lording the threat over her head that he would see all, know all. ‘A merciless God,’ she thought bitterly. Her mind made a distant note that the door, itself, had no lock either and she turned to glare at the spot between the Dark Lord’s shoulders, ready to protest, to yell that this wasn’t fair. 

“And of course, it goes without saying Harri but should the idea ever cross your pretty little head,” Voldemort spun on his heels, turning away from the window, his crimson eyes darkened by the lack of light. But even from this distance, she could see the promise in them, the challenge daring her to even try, “If you attempt to apparate without permission, I can assure you that it will not be a _pleasant_ experience.” 

Emerald eyes tracked his path as he crossed the room, sending her a patronizing smile as though he had all the faith in the world in her, that she would never dream of plotting against him, “I have some work to attend to for now but if you find yourself needing me, or wanting for my company, do feel free to call for me.” 

He smirked at the way her mouth was opening and closing in rapid succession, at the way she looked to be physically fighting a retort on the tip of her tongue.

With an open wave of his hand, he passed through the doorway without a second glance, “I have already briefed Narcissa on my expectations for you so she will relay them once she arrives.”

The door swung shut behind him and it was only until he had completely left did she let herself scream, just for a second, in frustration. Only he would turn a gift into a threat, a bedroom into a prison. Though part of her even wondered why she was surprised by it anyways, considering he was a Dark Lord and, what she privately referred to him as, ‘a world class control freak’. Harri finally pulled herself up from the ground on aching legs once she was sure he was gone, a sense of unease overcoming her and replacing the frustration as her eyes flitted about the bedroom. He hadn’t revealed how much he would know about what went on among the opulent furniture, what he would know about the conversations that would take place, and it was the uncertainty that filled her with anxiety. And while she had always vaguely suspected that was the case, hearing him confirm that she couldn’t just apparate away, wouldn’t even make it past the wards, made it all the more apparent of how damned she truly was. 

With weak fingers, she hoisted Hedwig’s cage up onto the coffee table, somehow finding herself wishing to be back at the Dursley’s, back at Hogwarts, back in the confined spaces of the old bedrooms that she knew so well. With the bout of distracting happiness long gone, evaporated into the air, she was back to feeling uncomfortable, unsure of herself, hesitant. ‘He just has to ruin everything,’ she thought grimly, falling down onto the chaise and roughly pushing her hair out of her face. Her eyes fluttered closed as she pulled her knees up to her chest, not caring that she was placing her feet on the expensive furniture. The room with its luxury, with its warm colours and splendor, seemed hostile, unfriendly, malicious now. Voldemort hadn’t given her a bedroom, a space of her own, a refugee from the world-- he had given her a cage. Albeit a marvelously gilded one, but still one nonetheless.


	37. Manners Are Needed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I meant to post this chapter last night but I ended falling asleep early so here it is now 💕 It's a tad longer than usual but some of you guys were asking to see how Harri's friends would react to the photo so I wanted to include that scene for those who are curious! 💕
> 
> As always, you are all amazing, and thank you for reading along!! 💕

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“-Ne. ‘Mione! Her-Mi-O-Ne!”

The girl blinked rapidly, caramel eyes vainly attempting to regain their focus, to come back into the present. The insistent call of her name made her realise that she had done it yet again, had gone off in her own world in a nasty little habit that she had yet to break. The gears of her mind had been turning, grinding gratingly against one another as she tried to make sense of the article laying on the table, attempting to solve a puzzle with too many of its pieces missing. Shaky fingers went to curl tighter around the steaming mug in her hands, a half-smile, apologetic and troubled, on her face. 

“Sorry, Ron. I was thinking,” she mumbled under her breath, sipping from the scalding coffee and burning her tongue in the process.

The pain, however, went unheeded as her eyes drifted back over to the newspaper. It had been another morning at the Burrow, busily fussing in preparation for breakfast and a fast-paced hustle that she would mostly definitely miss come the time that they had to return to school. The air was warmed, both by the fire and the mass of bodies seated at the impossibly long table, every chair mismatched and the plates not from one complete set. Molly had been frying bacon, the sizzle in the background as the Weasley clan had slowly become more animated, the enticing scent spurring everyone into action to help themselves. It was a comfortable sort of chaos, one that seemed at place in the eclectic Burrow with its dizzying colours, happy sounds and magically knitting needles. In every sense of the word, it was homely, comforting, a safe space, one that Hermione found herself enjoying coming back to every year.

That is, until the morning post had arrived. Now it had become a grim affair where no one dared to speak, to venture aloud their thoughts, to give their horror a voice. Molly had abandoned the bacon altogether while the spread on the table had gone cold. It was a shame, Hermione knew, but her stomach clenched in repulsion at the idea of food. Somehow, the warmth that had felt so comfortable just minutes prior had turned stifling, sweltering, suffocating. The ginger matron had trailed after her husband in an urgent low whisper, heavy footsteps creaking on the rickety stairs as they sought out privacy. The twins were huddled at the other end of the table, shocked into silence for once, while Ginny, pale and waned, was incessantly drumming on the worn wood, chestnut eyes flickering as she reread her own copy of the Prophet. And Ron. Well, Ron was still Ron. He had managed to find his appetite in spite of everything, eyeing his friend critically across the table as he shoveled chilled pancakes into his mouth. 

It had been disturbing, a shock that she hadn’t expected this early in the morning and providing information that, for once, left her stupefied and dumbfounded. It was all news to her-- Dumbledore having been Harri’s legal guardian this entire time, Sirius illegitimate and lacking official papers that would designate him as such. Part of her felt almost betrayed, wondering if Harri knew herself and chose to conceal the truth. Unfortunately, it had been a recurring theme in their friendship over the past few months. Recollections came back to her of the love bite on the pale neck, of the bruising circles under green eyes from nightmares she refused to voice, of a recent obsession with the library that was entirely out of her character. Yes, it was a pitiful, disappointing truth that they had grown distant, that lies hung like shackles about the feet of their friendship. And if the libel being spouted against Dumbledore hadn’t been enough, Hermione was beginning to think that his disappearance wasn’t as innocent as it originally seemed. With a shaky sigh, she took another piping hot sip, her mind unwillingly turning distant once again. It wouldn’t have been unlike their headmaster to disappear in search of answers, of information. After all, she had been around Harri for long enough to glean it was a common enough occurrence with the older wizard. But the timing of everything was suspicious, to say the least. Harri stays behind at Hogwarts, Dumbledore vanishes, and then the Dark Lord claims guardianship over her? 

She set the mug down and uncurled her fingers to run them through her voluminous hair, stomach rolling in a sickening wave. When Harri hadn’t shown up in time for Christmas, they had all assumed that she was kept at school later than expected and had either gone off to Grimmauld Place or would be arriving for the New Year. But never did they imagine that the girl, with her terribly reckless behaviour and sometimes questionable luck, would end up in the hands of Lord Voldemort. Her gaze had been trained on the magically knitting needles, their fuzzy outlines becoming clearer as she forced herself to concentrate, to leave her thoughts behind and to come back to the muggy kitchen. 

Truly a disconcerting sight. A photo of a girl she didn’t even fully recognise, despite sharing a room with her for almost six years, seemingly curling of her own admission into the arms of her parents’ murderer. An unsettling thought materialised that the redheaded girl looked as though she were a rendition of Persephone, outfitted in clinging snakeskin and elaborate makeup that befitted the Queen of Hell, in the embrace of Hades. A power couple destined to rule over the underworld, to cause mortal strife and terror, to reap chaos and destruction in their wake. ‘Don’t be silly,’ her common sense berated her for even entertaining such notions, ‘This is Harri you’re talking about. He _wanted_ her to look like that.’ And despite the truth in that rationale, that he had arranged it all, a small part, a less logic-driven stream of consciousness, begrudgingly admitted that they looked rather fetching next to each other. 

Against her will, she recalled Harri’s magic and her performance in their newly designed ‘Dark Arts’ class. She seemed to be able to use the spells being taught without any problem, despite openly advocating against their purposes. Even herself, having read the textbooks front to back and avidly practicing the motions, had difficulties summoning up satisfactory results that the green-eyed witch seemed to do with ease. It was as natural as breathing to her, a second nature. This inherent ability was what had allowed her to keep her spot as the best student in the class, an unchallenged role that seemed to be eternally hers. And Hermione couldn’t stop herself from wondering if her best friend was even aware that her core was grey, at best, that she seemed to be predisposed to the branch of dark magic. That, as much as she despised the discipline, Harri Potter was not as light as she believed herself to be. 

“Do you-- do you reckon she’s on his side now?”

Brown eyes widened in alarm, in shock as they flickered to the ginger boy before her. His face was pinched in discomfort as though entertaining the idea made him physically ill. 

“Ron!” she hissed out, forcefully setting down her chipped cup and causing the coffee to splash dangerously up the side.

How he could even entertain such an idea was beyond her comprehension because this was still _Harri_. Their Harri. Their best friend. And she would forever deny that she had, briefly, considered the same question. Ginny abruptly pushed her seat out from under the table, a sharp grinding screech of wood against wood as she rounded on her brother, eyes alight with fury.

“Don’t be stupid, Ron,” the ginger-haired girl protested, voice full of vehement denial, “She wouldn’t dare! Or are you forgetting that it was Harri who saved me from that monster in the chamber?” 

Hermione followed the younger Weasely’s shaking finger. It had landed directly on the handsome visage of the Dark Lord’s face, the glow of triumph in those red eyes, the cheshire grin revealing too sharp, too perfect teeth. Her thoughts varied, jumping far too quickly as she watched the moving photograph again. She noted, this time around, at how possessive the hand seemed about her friend’s waist, at how he had slotted her closer to him. He seemed dominating, pulling at invisible strings that directed the girl’s actions, positioning her so it made it seem as though they were on friendlier terms. And while it was true that Harri had leaned in first, the wide-eyed panic in those green eyes relayed the reality of it all-- she hadn’t been told of the press’s appearance and was taken off guard. Hermione thoughtfully bit her lower lip as she recalled her best friend’s dismay, her anxiety about having her photo taken, at being bombarded with interview questions. How she had been a nervous wreck during the entire tournament for the mere fact that reporters had been hovering at every corner and turn in the castle. 

“I mean, you have to admit,” the boy protested, ear tips scarlet at being chastised by the girls, the breakfast sausage half-eaten and forgotten on his plate, “She’s looking pretty cozy next to the slimy git.”

“No, Ron,” Hermione’s words were calm, contemplative and breaking up the increasing volume in the bickering between the siblings, “I don’t think she is.”

The raised voices had finally quieted down in the face of the levelheaded attitude of the brown-haired witch, the sister content to glare mutinously at her brother.

Ron looked down to his plate, using his fork to push around the blueberries before finally, tentatively, asking, “Do you think that the Order is going to get back together?”

Caramel eyes trailed over to the doorway where the Weasley parents had disappeared through, their tones hushed and quiet, nervousness hanging about them and grave looks in their eyes. It seemed more than a possibility that it was already in motion, that something was already underway. And, judging by the fact they had yet to return, she imagined they were discussing the likelihood of it as well. She finally flipped the paper over, unable to stand the sight of the photograph any longer, of the flashing bold titles. Despite not being a battle strategy expert, nor having ever been privy to the Order’s inner workings, she had come to the conclusion that it only made sense that they become fixated on retrieving Harri. And if that was to be the case, Hermione decided, firmly and in the moment, then she wanted to be a part of the underground organization. If it meant saving her best friend, sparing the girl any more hardship, if it meant finally being able to do something other than sitting by idly, then she was fully willing. Down the table, the twins rose from their spot, a detached ear hanging by a string in the hands of George. She made eye contact with them, their faces serious and a tightness in the corners of their eyes, in their frowns. A slight tilt of Fred’s head, an open invitation to follow if she wished, and Hermione rose from her seat. 

“I believe it’s a strong possibility,” she took a final sip from her mug, eyes blazing as she followed determinedly after the Weasley twins, ready to find some answers even if it meant eavesdropping, “And if so, I want in.”

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* * *

Narcissa had promptly arrived half an hour past the stroke of 9, pausing hesitantly outside of the door with a lightly curled hand poised to rap on the wood. It was an odd location for a bedroom, she had to admit, having to go through the Dark Lord’s own personal study to reach the door. However, she supposed it made sense in a way. It was only natural that he would want to keep her close, within reach, secluded from the rest of the manor and with only one way to enter or exit to monitor any foot traffic. Still, his reasons for being this protective, this cautious, had fully escaped her. Harri Potter was officially deemed his charge and only a fool with a desire for a painful death would even attempt to raise a hand to her. And, judging from what she had seen, the witch was more than capable enough of handling herself, of standing her own ground. Though there was at least one comfort to be found-- they were not sharing a room, specifically a bed, like she had originally feared. 

Two sharp knocks were given out of pure courtesy before she twisted the ornately crafted handle. Stepping into the gorgeously done chambers, her suspicions, and bewilderment, about her Lord’s preferential treatment towards his prior enemy were only encouraged further. It was apparent that he held her in high regard, confirmed by the amount of wealth, by the opulence, he had afforded her. Even Severus, who had performed admirably in his appointed task in the Hogwarts raid, hadn’t been this generously rewarded. True he was given a cottage in the English countryside for his efforts, one where he could brew potions in peace during his downtime, but it was nowhere near as luxurious, as costly, or lavish as the apartments bequeathed to Harri Potter. 

The older woman had found the girl curled on the couch, still in her lace-trimmed silk nightgown and head buried between her knees. Seeing her so distraught and so blatantly adrift made her heart squeeze in an uncomfortable way, the vaguest sense of guilt overcoming her that she had participated in uprooting such a young life. However, the best she could do at the moment was to follow through on her Lord’s orders. To help prepare the young witch, to guide her, teach her the ways of high society and to, hopefully, give her some armour that could be of use. She squared her thin shoulders, a wave of determined fire blooming in her chest. While she could claim to have no involvement in the actual capture of the girl, she had been equally culpable in forcing her into this by proxy. Yes, to atone for her sins, she would take it upon herself to thoroughly educate her in the ways of the Dark Lord’s inner circle and to help impart onto her ways to survive the cruelty of men. 

A soft sigh and a straightening of her spine before she moved towards the lounge, keeping her voice soft, gentle, as calming as she could, “Child, come. It’s time to get dressed for the day.” 

Harri slowly lifted her head from her knees, blearily blinking the sleep from her gaze. She had fallen asleep, she realised, her body still stiff, still sore, from the merciless amount of dancing the night prior. A yawn threatened to claw its way up her throat as her dazed attention focused on Narcissa before her, an encouraging smile on those painted lips. She looked as elegant as ever, Harri noticed, with her snowy blonde hair piled on her head and in a rather modest high cut champagne dress. Ladened by the lingering pulls of exhaustion, she could only nod in cooperation as the older witch placed shapely hands on her shoulders, carefully guiding her to the bathroom.

* * *

* * *

She had found herself seated at the vanity, eyeing the space in incredulous wonder as Narcissa had fluttered away to the closet. Much like the main room, it was over the top and richly done. White marble with gold veins covered the counters, delicate gold filigree outlined the vanity’s mirror, and, for reasons that escaped her, a crystal drop chandelier hung in the center of the vaulted ceiling. While it was missing the sunken-in pool that had been in Voldemort’s chambers, there was an ornately carved clawfoot tub, its feet, she was sure, molded from real gold, that overlooked the manor’s spiraled hedge garden. It was all ridiculous, far too much, and it made her head spin. Rising panic made itself known as an itch in her chest and Harri had taken to staring resolutely at her hands in her lap, trying to desperately will away the splendor she had found herself surrounded by. That, perhaps, if she ignored it, it would all cease to exist. 

“I think these shall be suitable enough,” Narcissa came back with fabric draped over her arms and a firm approving nod of her head. 

Harri eyed it suspiciously, wondering if she could just refuse it all and beg for her oversized sweater, for her tattered sneakers, their holes be damned. However, she just knew the request would go unheeded, viewed as blasphemous to even suggest wearing something so muggle amongst aristocratic purebloods. Reaching out, she rubbed the fabric absentmindedly between her fingers, noting how smooth the dark grey wool felt. The Malfoy matriarch had managed to find one of the less intricate dresses, much to Harri’s immense relief, a heavy piece suitable to chase off the winter chill. It was almost black in its colouration, a floor-length affair with slightly puffed sleeves and a scooped neckline meant to draw attention to one's collarbones. Her fingers skirted across the fabric to the silver buttons. Each one was intricately stamped with the design of a rose and ran along the length from the nipped v-shaped seam at the waistline to an inch under the collar. In a way, she supposed that she should get used to wearing such things as this appeared to be what her life had come to-- ornate dresses and being pampered on in the mornings. 

Something peeking out from the corner of the dress had caught her attention and she gingerly lifted away the fabric, nearly choking at the sight that had greeted her. A brassiere, a dark emerald green with delicate matching lace covering the silk fabric, lay innocently in the folds of the wool. She blinked a few times trying to process it, eyebrows knitting together in confusion at whether or not this was meant for her. But then again, who else would it be for?

Harri turned to Narcissa in mortification, voice slow, pleading for this to be a mistake, “Mrs. Malfoy, can I, um. I mean. Well, what is that?” 

Pale eyes lifted from the task of sorting out stockings, debating about which ones would best match the outfit, to follow the pointed green gaze. The blonde witch frowned as she turned to stare at the redhead seated at the vanity, her own thin brows mirroring Harri's confusion. Her own response was lilted with a question, unsure as to why the girl seemed so taken back, so shocked. Perhaps such things didn’t exist in the muggle world? And, if so, what did they possibly wear instead?

“Dear child, those are your undergarments?” 

Harri had figured that would be the case but somehow it made her even more unsettled hearing it confirmed aloud. Of course, she had seen lacy bras in her life. Lavender, for one, had always been quite proud of her collection of lingerie, all too eager to flaunt it. And, of course, she knew that people wore them even under everyday clothing, that many had no problem spending exorbitant amounts on beautiful underwear. But those people were _not_ Harri Potter. Throughout her entire life, she had only ever worn the plain, yet functional, white underwear that came in the plastic 3-packs from the supermarkets. And she never really found the need to replace the original ones her Aunt had, reluctantly, bought her when she had entered puberty. They had been one of the only items she had ever received new from the Dursleys and she was more than content with them, much to her roommate’s horror and dismay. After all, she had always thought who was ever going to see it anyways?

But now, seeing the perplexed look on the prim pureblood’s face, the one that relayed confused alarm, she suddenly felt that, perhaps, she had been doing something wrong her entire life. That, maybe, she didn’t know what it meant to be a girl, that being one was completely wasted on her as Lavender had once accused her of. Reservedly, she picked the bra up in an attempt to see it from all angles, confused by the unnecessary frill of it. There was lace where lace wasn’t needed, silk that was useless in function and mesh where it most definitely didn’t belong. 

Then the strangest thought occurred to her, holding the lingerie in her hands and spying the matching underwear that went with it. And she wasn’t even sure what had prompted her to ask other than the burning curiosity that she would, more likely than not, regret in the end, “Mrs. Malfoy, did you pick out these clothes or--?”

The blonde woman had appeared behind Harri, frowning as she lifted up the auburn hair before letting it fall, undecided on the style. However, at the unusual question, she paused in her fussing to quirk a single eyebrow.

“I did not. It was the Dark Lord, in fact,” she responded slowly, deciding that keeping the hair down was the best option.

An emerald silk scarf materialised in the air and she, loosely, gathered the long fiery locks into a ponytail at the nape of her pale neck before securing it with the strip of fabric. Elegant hands landed on small shoulders, giving a slight squeeze and her tone turning sly.

“And I must say, he has rather impeccable taste,” she hummed as she indicated for the girl to rise from the vanity, “It’s quite a rarity to find a man with such. Now, do you require assistance to get dressed or shall I leave you alone?”

It took her a second to recover from the admission that the Dark Lord, of all people, had gone to the lengths of personally buying her clothes. And not even just clothes but underwear as well. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry out in horror at the mental image, at the fact that he somehow knew all of her measurements, or laugh at the absurdity of it. ‘Merlin he’s such a control freak,’ her thoughts were dismayed, mildly unsettled that he knew so much about her body when she wasn’t even aware of the last time that she had been measured for anything.

With an adamant shake of her head, she tried to convince Narcissa that she was fully capable of getting dressed by herself, that she could be afforded that simple task, “No, no. Please! I’ll be fine on my own.”

Green eyes trailed after the pureblood woman, letting out a shaky sigh when the door clicked closed. Harri stood there for a second, in her nightgown, hands on her hips and biting her lower lip. Part of her wanted to rebel, to say screw it, to not wear the ridiculously offending brassiere. She was, after all, her own person, qualified of making her own decisions and if she wanted to wear functional underwear that most girls would snub, then she would do so. But then part of her was also curious about it, having never even considered herself being the kind of woman that would dare to wear such a thing. It was a war in her mind until she groaned, throwing her hands in defeat and pulling the night gown over her head. Shivers from the cold passed through, pebbling her flesh as she reached for the delicate lacy pieces. Doing up the complicated clasps, embarrassingly fumbling her way through it, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror.

She couldn’t help wincing, having found that she truly did look as ridiculous as she thought she would. Harri had suspected that it wouldn’t suit her and she found herself, oddly enough, relieved at the discovery. That she was still her same old self, still unchanged no matter how much the Dark Lord may try to fiddle with her outward appearance. After all, things like this, lacy and delicate, were made for girls like Lavender Brown. Feminine young women who took pride in their appearances, who had large chests and possessed all of the grace afforded to the notion of a fairer sex. Not a too thin wisp of a tomboy who spent her time playing Quidditch and collecting bruises as a hobby. ‘All things considered, however, it does feel quite nice,’ she thought idly as she stepped into the dress pooled about her feet, mildly disturbed by the fact that it fit her like a glove as she did the up the front buttons.

* * *

* * *

Narcissa was waiting for her in the parlour with a pair of small kitten heels in her hands, black and matte leather. With a tilt of her head, she motioned for Harri to sit on the lounge as she slipped the shoes onto her feet. ‘She’s quite delicate,’ her inner thoughts assessed appraisingly, her feet small yet shapely, the ankles thin and proportionate to her weight. Truly, she was a product of her lineages, of centuries of fine breeding and it was the largest tragedy that she had been raised amongst muggles. However, Narcissa Malfoy was nothing if not a woman of determination, wholly set on remedying that oversight.

“My Lord has instructed that I teach you our ways and instill etiquette into you,” the blonde woman explained absentmindedly, nimble fingers doing the last silver clasp on the shoe before placing the foot gently back to the ground.

Harri frowned at that, scoffing and slightly offended that he felt her manners were lacking. And while it was true she rarely used ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ around him, she felt it was warranted enough considering he was the one to kidnap her. After all, someone would have to be completely mental to be nice and courteous to the person who was the cause of all of their strife, of their worry, of their misery. But she never chewed with her mouth open or sneezed into her hands and she believed that it had to count for something.

Her arms rose to cross defensively over her chest, voice holding no small amount of resentment, a scowl pinching her features, “Maybe he should learn some etiquette as well, considering he kidnapped an underage girl without her permission. I’m pretty sure that most wouldn’t consider that very ‘proper’ of him.”

Narcissa rose from the ground to take a seat next to Harri on the chaise, trying her best to stop the quirk of a smile at her spirit, at her backbone. A gentle hand went to rest on the girl’s knee, trying to implore her to see some reason, “The clothes and your looks will only take you so far, dear child. Unfortunately, you are now a part of our world and it is best to make sure you are prepared in all areas.”

A hand strayed to tuck an errant lock of auburn hair behind her ear, pale eyes alighting in glee, in excitement, “Besides, it could be fun, you know? Or, at the very least, be helpful. My sisters and I went through the exact same thing and, not to flatter myself, but I do know a thing or two on ladylike behaviour. I was never allowed to educate a daughter of my own so I’m hoping you will allow me to teach you.”

Harri blinked startled at the sudden display of motherly affection, her stomach wrenching and a burning lump beginning to form in her throat. This woman, who barely even knew her, was offering her guidance, to impart onto her knowledge that a mother would to a daughter. Unbidden, unsummoned, unwanted tears began to sting, blurring her vision as she stared into the openly kindhearted face. Suddenly she was not quite 16 anymore but a 4 year old girl, finally comprehending her Aunt’s sneers, why she had slapped away greedy small hands clutching for her, reaching for her, the livid protests of _‘I’m not your mother._ ’ Suddenly, she was 5 and understanding her own was dead, never coming back and never saving her. 6--realising that she was a freak and that freakish girls don’t deserve lullabies or bedtime stories. Memories of the dark broom closet under the stairs, an ear pressed desperately against the metal vent, eyes closed to pretend that her Aunt was speaking to her and not her cousin. An ache gnawed at her chest and her hands quickly rose to press their heels into her eyes, grinding desperately down in an attempt to vanish the hollowness, the desperation, that feeling that scratched and tore in time with her heartbeat. She tried to tell herself that she was almost an adult. That she had survived on her own this long without a mother, that she didn’t need one. It all felt like a lie but it was a lie she was entirely too comfortable with. 

Reluctantly, the hand had retracted and Harri drew in a shaky breath. Somehow having no contact felt better than having any at all, that the air suddenly seemed not as thin when the woman was not touching her. It was her pitiful truth--she was used to not feeling kind hands and it was only when she was faced with them that she didn’t know what to do. In an attempt to distract herself, to move forward, to not linger on her embarrassment, on her weakness, she questioned in an uneven tone.

“Sisters?”

Narcissa eyed the girl in wary hesitation, the squeezing in her heart increasing tenfold at the sudden display of emotion, of the abrupt appearance of tears. She had retreated her touch in surprise that such a simple gesture had reduced the girl to a shaking mess, terrified that it had been something that she had done and fearful to make it even worse. Perhaps she had overstepped a boundary in voicing her wishes for a potential relationship with the girl? Perhaps she made her remember her own mother, long dead by the hands of her Lord? In either case, when presented with a segue, with an opportunity to move on, she gladly took it. 

“Oh yes, I have 2 older one,” she hummed, training her gaze forward stubbornly to allow the girl at her side an illusion of privacy, “I don’t speak to one of them but the other you have met. The witch with the dark curls? Her name is Bellatrix. She’s the eldest of us.”

The residual tremors were slowly fading and Harri sent a quick thankful prayer to the universe for letting her escape further mortification by openly crying in front of the refined woman. She allowed the hands to fall back to her lap, satisfied that she had managed to suppress the tears enough, that she had stamped down the stinging throb. That she had successfully managed to bottle up all of that painful yearning, had convinced herself to leave it in the darkest recesses of her mind.

“Bellatrix?” she echoed, a small strained laugh escaping her at the memory of the witch yelling at her, at the lust in those dark eyes whenever she gazed upon the Dark Lord.“She’s a little--.”

“Much, I know,” the blonde woman supplied, joining in with the forced laughter, “But I love her nonetheless. Oh--before I forget!”

She clapped her hands as realisation dawned over her on what she was forgetting, a small wooden box appearing in her lap. Her fingers trailed over the lid, an apologetic look shimmering in those light blue eyes.

“One last addition to your outfit needs to be made before we head out.” 

Narcissa clasped a black ribbon around her neck, a broach similar to the one she had worn last night proudly gleaming at the hollow of her throat. Harri’s hand drifted up on its own admission to touch it, frowning that the metal was warmed rather than cold. She finally questioned after a second of her finger tracing the raised impression of the snake consuming its own tail.

“I noticed that Voldemort was wearing the same one last night. What is it?”

The Malfoy matron tried her best not to outwardly flinch at the carefree usage of her Lord’s name, a habit she was quickly learning that the girl seemed inclined to. Part of her wondered if she should try to break her out of it, to instruct her that those under him can not, dare not, say it aloud. Then again, Harri Potter wasn’t like the rest of them, was she? She bore no mark on her forearm and never publicly bent the knee. No, she was an oddity among the Death Eaters, a special case.

A frown pulled on her painted lips, trying to figure out how to carefully word her answer so as not to alarm her, "It’s My Lord’s own personal insignia. His crest, if you will. Many houses create one unique to their family and it is customary for the wards to wear them on their person. It serves to identify who belongs under the care of what house when blood relations are not present.”

She blinked once, then twice, acid in her mouth as her hand retracted from her throat. For some reason, she found it humiliating despite recognising that there was some merit in the idea. What made her upset, however, was the fact that he was openly branding her as his, despite everyone already having a rather clear idea of whose care she was under. It felt like overkill, completely unneeded. 

“It’s a collar,” she stated plainly, resentment bleeding into her voice. 

Narcissa frowned, trying her best to deny it but finding herself unable to. With a small, sympathetic smile, a grimace at the bluntness of her assessment, she helped the girl off the couch before linking her arms through hers.

“Come, we have much to do before the day is over.”

As Harri was led from the bedroom, she tried to ignore the heavy weight of the silver at her throat, at how the luxuriously thick fabric seemed constraining, at how the silk underwear seemed to chafe her skin. She tried to ignore the fact that she had been dolled up, once again, to suit his preferences, that she was going out into the world looking a bit less like Harri. That everything she was currently wearing was his, a testament to his claim, to his influence and power. And as they strolled down the empty marble halls of the manor, she tried to block out how it felt as though the phantom of him was embracing her, draping about her body in a possessive hold, a whisper materializing in the back of her mind that endlessly looped _‘Mine.’_


	38. Just Another Day At The Office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This chapter delves a bit more into the political structure of the wizarding world under Voldemort's rule-- I had received a comment that someone was interested in seeing more of the changes under Voldemort's reign and wanted to give you guys a bit of a glimpse into it! As we progress into this story, politics will be sprinkled here and there as references and plot points, especially with the Order's uprising! 
> 
> Also, I kept some things canon in this chapter:  
> 1\. I've kept the friendship between Rufus Scrimgeour, Tiberius Ogden and Bertie Higgs intact  
> 2\. I kept the idea of the "Magic is Might" fountain in the Ministry but added my own twist to it
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! <3 Thank as always for all of the love!!

* * *

* * *

“Your Majesty, please! I am innocent, I swear it,” a balding man, wiry framed and with a too-long nose, pleaded.

The desperation had turned his normally deep voice high and reedy, the confused fear making him quake. The older wizard was seated on a single wooden chair in the recessed pit of the sunken main floor, forced to be under scrutiny by those floating above him-- an animal on display for a cruel audience. Chains were heavy about his squat neck and wrists, suppressing his magic and denying him his right, his access to his core. Even in the dim lighting of the auditorium, it was evident that he was sweating profusely.

Voldemort wondered how it must feel to be abruptly cut off from something one had known their entire life, a wizard’s constant companion since the moment of birth, from nature’s greatest gift. To feel suddenly useless, incapable of even so much as lifting a finger, of not even being able to perform the most rudimentary of spells. Was having one’s magic restrained equivalent to the feeling of a lost limb? Were there any phantom pains, sensations, where one might think, for the briefest second, that they could discern the severed connection? How did it feel to suddenly become a muggle, to be lesser than, inferior? Part of him hungered to know, a vile side whispering in encouragement to leave the chains on the man, to see how long it would take for the quivering wizard before him to crumble, for his mind to disintegrate. 

He crossed his long legs, one over the other, as predatory satisfaction bloomed warmly within his chest. It was intoxicating, a rousing experience to see such visceral effects of fear in another human. The desperation in those wide eyes, the heavy layer of a cool sweat glistening on the bushy brow, the way the chest rose and fell too quickly in panicked breaths. He could almost imagine having the man’s heart within his grip, the flutters and pulsating rhythms of it still beating, the warmth, the blood, the very elixir of life, coating his hands, the crevices and dips between his fingers. And oh, how tempting it would be to just _squeeze_. Elegant fingers curled into the wooden armrests of the high-backed throne, knuckles bleeding white from the pressure as he tried to smother the violent tendencies attempting to overwhelm his control. These trials always brought out his more sadistic side. The corrupting illness that reveled in bringing those who had irked him to heel, to see them plea and beg, to prostrate themselves before the might of Lord Voldemort. ‘Calm yourself,’ logic murmured, cautioning against the surmounting darkness.

He leaned back into the ornate chair, fingers steepled as he drew in a calming breath. It took more effort than he would like to admit to fend off the malicious smirk, to shield the unholy thoughts from showing on his face. After all, he had an image to protect-- one of a benevolent Sovereign only seeking equal justice and reparations. And as much as he would like nothing more than to give into his baser side, he also knew that the masses were more willing to follow a leader they adored, one they believed to be fair. His jaw ticked, teeth grinding, as he desperately tried to hide away Lord Voldemort and summon forth Marvolo Gaunt.

On the dais alongside him were two of his most faithful, Nott and Malfoy, hovering a respectable distance behind him and standing at attention. The other members of his council were scattered about on the staggered platforms floating above the pit and seated on the black wooden benches. The room, outfitted in dark marble and casted in a green glow from the flames on the wall-mounted sconces, was silent, breathes held until he gave the indication for the trial to start. Voldemort eyed the man in shackles in contemplation, wondering how long he should draw out the torment of waiting. It was a heady feeling to know that the wizard was already trying to procure favour with him, to acclaim his innocence before even being accused of anything. A bestial delight, savage and calloused, danced in crimson eyes as he motioned with an open hand for the blond pureblood to read the charges.

At the nonchalant wave from his Lord, Lucius stepped forward on the platform, clearing his throat as he unfolded the scroll. For a brief second, he allowed his pale eyes to bounce about the room before projecting through a sonorous, “Bertie Higgs stands accused of a breach against one of most sacred tenets of our world: The International Statute of Secrecy. Witnesses have testified to his usage of magic in the presence of no less than 5 Muggles, as well as willingly cohorting and seeking intimate relations with the intent to expose our society. Furthermore, it has been confirmed that the wand submitted for evidence was a spare, illegally obtained and undocumented within the Isles of Wizarding Britain. According to the Law of Wandholding, section A, paragraph 3, all wands must be publicly registered to the witch, or wizard, who is its primary user and must have imports paid should it originate outside of the United Kingdom. ”

“Your Majesty, I didn’t, I swear! I would never,” Higgs pleaded with tears in his eyes, starting to thrash in earnest against his bonds. His words, however, were quickly drowned out by the gasps of disgust and jeers from the crowd.

It would truly be a damnable crime if it had happened. But, as it currently stood, everything that the wizard was accused of was a lie, a fabrication in the name of suppressing a potential rebellion. ‘It was almost too easy,’ the Dark Lord thought absentmindedly. Paying off a handful of his more obscure followers for their testimony, of slipping an unregistered wand into the wizard’s possession, making sure that the Aurors found it on him when he was captured. Voldemort motioned for the false witnesses to deliver their rehearsed speeches, propping his chin up in an effort to look contemplative. He made sure his gaze would follow as each one stepped up to the podium and that he gave a nod, or a frown if required, to appear as though he were listening. After all, the Dark Lord needed to seem as though he were weighing all of the presented ‘facts’ for the press scattered on the edges of the room. And, of course, that too was a lie. Higgs’s fate was already predetermined the second he had been shackled to that chair, the reality being that Voldemort knew exactly what he was going to do with the man. 

It was almost a shame as, by almost all accounts, Bertie was a rather outstanding citizen. Moderately wealthy, clean track record, not too outspoken and seemingly content with his lot in life. His fatal flaw, however, the damning of him rested in his connections. Upon researching the half-blooded man, it was found that Higgs had been rather close to both Tiberius Ogden and Rufus Scrimgeour, the trio spied often hunting in Norfolk on the weekends. And that meant, to some degree, he might hold similar beliefs as those of his deceased friends. Dangerous thoughts that were aligned more with Dumbledore, with revolution, with the old headmaster’s vendetta against the Dark Lord. And, quite frankly, he didn’t need the headache of another potential political uprising when he was already dealing with eradicating the poison left behind by Albus’s presence. Of course, it was also entirely within the realm of possibility that Bertie Higgs did not hold the same principles as his comrades, as his hunting buddies. But the threat of potentially adopting the ideology in a show of solidarity, of loyalty to his fallen companions was one that was too great. ‘It’s best to cut out the root early,’ he thought, leaning back as the last witness provided their entirely false account. The thought of convicting an innocent man did very little to burden him with guilt, especially not if it meant securing his reign even further. 

“I have heard enough and have come to a decision,” Voldemort rose from his throne in deliberation, forcing his voice to sound grave, to hold the twinge of false regret, “I hereby sentence Bertie Higgs to life in Azkaban for knowingly, and intentionally, breaking The International Statute of Secrecy and for illegally possessing an undocumented wand. Furthermore, all assets, properties and bank accounts shall hereby be seized by the Citadel, all titles, both personal and familial, henceforth stripped.”

He barely had heard the man’s screams for mercy, for reconsideration as he turned on his heel in retreat. Distantly, he could register the commotion of the Aurors dragging the old wizard away to rot in a cell, the last of the trio as good as dead. Only when he was turned, shielded from the public eye, did he allow for the smirk to settle, to let that false sympathy wither away. _This_ is where his true power lied, where he could exercise full and complete control over their society. Not only was he more magically powerful, his tendencies and ruthlessness knowing no bounds, but now he had the ability that every respectable pureblood feared-- he could completely erase their standing in society. Voldemort had spent his entire life around them, getting to know their circles quite intimately and had come to the most fundamental truth about their existences: they clung to their titles, their legacies, their wealth as a beggar would to a gold coin. Their reputations and connections provided with them with a false sense of security, merit afforded to them through inheritance rather than earned. Getting them to comply, the scattered couple that seemed hesitant to openly align themselves with him, was easy enough when all it took was a damning word from him, a sign of his name, to render their great houses to ash. After all, no one wanted to be marked, to be remembered as the one who had reduced their noble family to squalor, to end their dynasties of luxury and prestige. And, of course, the remaining few that wouldn’t be cowed by threats against their families or titles quickly fell under a well-placed Imperius.

* * *

* * *

He had retreated to his office in hopes of making progress through the stack of paperwork towering on his grand desk, of finally completing projects that direly needed his attention. After all, he had been quite negligent over the past few days, occupied far too much with his little horcrux to even bother. But the Dark Lord had found himself unable to, his mind restless and pacing, his thoughts too scattered to collect. For the past ten minutes, he had been tapping in an irritated rhythm on the wood grain as he reread the bill before him, the words distant and unable to register. Finally deciding enough was enough, he rose in annoyance, pushing his chair out with far more force than necessary, and pouring himself a glass of scotch from the crystal bar cart. With an absentminded sip, relishing in the burn as the alcohol slipped down his throat, he crossed over to the grand windows overlooking the atrium below.

The previously labelled Ministry building looked, for the most part, the same as it always had. Dark and grim with wood floors that were almost reflective in how much they were polished, the black brick still making up the concaved walls. The grand fountain in the center of the foyer was still there, as well as the panels of glass that denoted offices reserved for the higher ranked officials. However, if paid enough attention to, one might observe that several key details had been changed upon the start of his reign. For one, there was a rather impressive statue of himself, sitting on a throne with Nagini draped about his shoulders, made from solid gold and hovering in the center of the fountain. The stone base supporting his likeness had muggles carved into it, being crushed under him and straining to hold up his weight. It had been Lucius’s idea, that final touch, and even Voldemort had to admit it sent a rather powerful message. Banners made from emerald velvet now hung from every corner, a silver ouroboros superimposed onto them with its one visible eye a startling red and animated to swallow an inch more of its ever-lengthening tail. Voldemort took another sip from the crystal-cut glass, gaze flitting about at the workers below. He had kept some of them, the ones that were more akin to sheep rather than people, to carry on with the tasks that he, himself, felt were far beneath his precious attention. 

But, on a whole, it had been a purge. Entire departments, ones that he felt were useless, pointless in their existence, had been eradicated-- such as the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. The Wizengamot had been thoroughly disbanded to be replaced with his followers, a minor sprinkling of some of the more neutral parties kept only for appearance’s sake. But the main power rested in the newly formed Acting Council of the Sovereign, a hand-selected few given the privilege to, at least publicly, enact laws and appear to give him council: Vincent Avery, Bartemius Crouch Jr, , Rabastan Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, Cantankerus Nott, Evan Rosier, Thorfinn Rowle, Marcus Travers, and Corban Yaxley. The new branch was composed of several members belonging to the Sacred 28, his most loyal and his most obedient. Of course, his other followers had found positions within the new government, particularly in replacing the previously atrocious security at the Ministry. But it was the core families that he had appointed to be directly underneath him, the ones whose names had meant something and who had garnered their own pledged loyalties from lesser houses. This was his new Citadel, his new rule. 

And while he usually would find some joy in it, relishing in seeing his image captured in gold, in seeing his banners proudly staking his claim, he couldn’t find the energy to do so. Voldemort knocked back the glass, draining the last remnants of the amber liquid as he, idly, tracked the blonde head of Malfoy crossing the atrium’s floor. Without the trial to distract him, without the feelings of twisted savagery and a bloodthirsty need to destroy the trembling man before him, his thoughts, as they usually did, drifted back to his horcrux. The image of the broom closet still haunted him, still puzzled him and, no matter how much he mulled over it, he couldn’t quite fully understand it. Then there was the matter of her reluctance, of her discomfort in accepting the luxury he bestowed onto her. The look of being lost so clear in her eyes. His fingers tightened around the glass feeling the swell of vexation at the lack of answers, at not being able to understand. Very few things escaped him, could claim to leave the Dark Lord bewildered, but this was one of them. 

He summoned the bottle of scotch, holding out the cut crystal to let it refill itself. With narrowed eyes and a distant mind, the Dark Lord thought of Severus Snape. He was the one man that might be able to fill in the blanks, the one that had spent the most time around the girl. Not caring whether or not if the potions masters had prior engagements, he pushed his magic through to their connection, summoning the man and adding in a healthy dose of impatience to the mix. A minute had passed, the ticking of a clock filling the background. And then- there it was, a hesitant rap on the grand double doors. They opened up of their own accord as he faced the windows, watching the scurry of the crowd below with mild interest. The Dark Lord took another contemplative sip, fully ignoring the reverent proclamation of a greeting in the background.

“My Lord”. 

“Severus,” he finally greeted in return, looking over his shoulder at the dark-haired man kneeling a respectable distance away. The ice in the glass had clinked, a deafening sound in the quiet of the office. Voldemort turned on the spot, hand shooting out to grip the high back of the chair at his desk. 

“Sit,” he motioned only with a tilt of his head, choosing to stand and tower over the subservient wizard.

Crimson eyes impassively tracked as the man had risen on hesitant feet, taking the empty seat across the desk in uncertainty. 

“I am hoping you could help me with something, Severus,” his tone was low, a lilt to it as though it were a request, a wish, rather than a command. Of course, only a fool would think otherwise, “Your muggle-born love, Lily Potter, she had a sister, did she not?”

Snape went rigid in the chair, heart pounding erratically in his chest. A vague sense of dread overcame him at the casual mention of Lily. Why his Lord suddenly felt the need to bring her up escaped him, putting him on edge and making his teeth grind. He tried so desperately to suppress the fury behind his occlumency shields, the anger that wanted to lash out in grief, in sorrow, in vengeance. To demand why he had dared to even voice the woman’s name aloud, what gave him the right to do so. It was an anger rooted in the fact that his Lord dared to act so blasé in mentioning her in passing when he had been her murderer, the one to take her from him despite his begging to spare her. Outwardly, his face was schooled into a neutral expression though he could feel the tension in his cheeks, in his jaw, at how pinched he must look. And, judging by the shrewd look the Dark Lord was leveling him with, he knew all too well what Severus was feeling, what he was thinking. 

“She did, My Lord,” he finally responded when he felt that the suppression of the grief, of the resentment was adequate enough, “Petunia Dursley. She is Potter’s aunt.”

It vaguely amused him that Snape still felt such intense feelings for the woman and such great hostility towards him for ending her life. And oh how he wanted to sneer, to cruelly point out that she chose to marry the potion master’s greatest tormentor. That she had been the one to willingly leave Severus behind for something grander, for the wealth and luxury that came with a prestigious family. That he was pathetic for still holding onto this notion of ‘the great love’ that they had shared, of the tragic story of Severus Snape and Lily Potter. But, in the end, it would be easiest to have the man cooperate and, frankly, it was too much of a hassle to cast an Imperius on him or to tear through his mind for answers. 

“And Harri, she went to go live with her muggle relatives, correct?” he questioned finally after a beat of a second, staring down into the amber liquid and swirling it in a brooding manner.

Snape blinked in surprise at the usage of the girl’s first name, mildly thrown off guard by how casual it had sounded coming from him, of the vaguest sense of fondness in his tone. Briefly, he wondered when they had gotten so close and what was the extent of their relationship.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Tell me, you spent time with this Petunia correct? How did she feel about magic?”

Voldemort lifted his gaze from the glass to stare evenly into coal eyes, already guessing the answer but wanting verbal confirmation. Muggles tended to have either one of two reactions to magic, both usually rooted in subconscious jealousy. It was particularly common among muggle-born siblings when one had inherited the gift while another hadn’t.

“My Lord?” the potions professor echoed, brows drawing together in confusion at where this conversation could possibly be heading. He wondered if he had misheard the question, that his brain had become addled. But upon seeing the impatience enter those scarlet eyes, the fingers that were beginning to drum on the side of the glass in his hands and ringing dully with each tap, he decided he hadn’t.

So he started tentatively, trying to recall the Petunia from his childhood, from all of those years ago, “She seemed rather disturbed by it all. Lily had once confided in me that she was envious, however. Apparently, she had even written a letter to Dumbledore, once Lily had received her own Hogwarts acceptance, begging to come along with her sister. She was denied, of course.”

Crimson eyes narrowed even further, humming pensively at the information. And there was the truth of it, the crux of the issue and why he was trying to put a plan into motion where muggle-born children would be kept within magic-based foster homes instead. Those who didn’t possess magic, who couldn’t feel it, often considered it a disease, something dangerous and to be feared. Sometimes even corrected, depending on the religious beliefs of the parents. But in all cases, envy was the true underlying cause for such actions, for such callousness.

“I see. And pray tell, in all of your years watching over Harri, did she ever mention her home life?”

Snape frowned, trying to remember anything, any complaints or bemoaning of hers about her muggle relatives. However, he, admittedly, had never been close to the girl while at school and therefore wasn’t privy to her frustrations, if there were any. But as he was about to admit his ignorance, a specific memory suddenly came back to him with startling clarity.

His mouth thinned into a grim line, “There was one incident, in fact. At the beginning of her second year. She had arrived with a broken wrist and had to be healed by Madam Pomfrey before the feast even began. According to the diagnosis, it had been broken for at least a week or so and was improperly mending. The girl had claimed that she had gotten into a fight with a muggle boy and had broken it by accident. Dumbledore wasn’t concerned by it nor was I. Potter had always been a reckless child with an infamously short temper and it wouldn’t have been the first time that she had gotten injuries in a scuffle she had initiated.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes widened just fractionally, astonishment overcoming him for a brief moment before a cold fury began to make itself at home in his chest, burrowing deeply and swishing its tail in agitation. The liquid in the glass began to swirl threateningly on its own accord. She had come back from the summer vacation with an injured wrist, one that had occurred a week earlier, and her muggle guardians didn’t even see fit to take her to a hospital?

“Her relatives saw that she had broken a bone and still didn’t allow her to receive muggle treatment? And yet Dumbledore was dismissive of this negligence on their part?” he asked far too calmly. 

Hearing it aloud, and put in that light, it did sound rather suspicious. Abrupt images formed in Snape’s mind of the green-eyed girl returning from the summer holidays, thinner than when she had initially left, her eyes a touch duller, her usual vibrant energy lacking. Little details that he had originally dismissed as her own doing-- bruises on her arms, her shoulders, her skin, scratches and scars that he had thought she received from careless behaviour. Her flinching at sudden loud sounds, her despondency when the school year was nearing its end. Coal eyes searched crimson ones in alarm, things suddenly clicking into place and horror filling him. He had visited the home himself. Had seen how she withered under her aunt’s sharp gaze, how she was content to hide behind him until the muggle woman had left. What else had he missed? What other warning signs had been flagged before him that he had been blissfully ignorant of? 

“My Lord, it couldn’t be possible, could it?” Severus finally ventured to ask in the space of the silence that followed, catching on to the underlying implications in his Lord’s questioning.

Voldemort took a long, slow sip from his glass, draining it completely as his mind began to turn. It could entirely be a coincidence, he knew, but her actions, her despair and guilt that he had felt as real as his own, her feelings of being unworthy. No, those were too real to stem from anything innocent. And if anyone was painfully aware of the cruelty of muggles, of how much suffering they could reap, it was him. Distant flashes of his time spent at Wool’s, of the visiting priests determining him to be possessed, of being starved and beaten in an attempt to make him ‘normal’.

“I believe,” he finally said, words slow, purposeful, quite clear in their meaning, “That a visit with the Dursleys is in order.”

* * *

* * *

Another knock on the wood had him looking towards the door in exasperation, his foul mood worsening at the intrusion. How overwhelming the urge was to seek out those parasites, to demand answers, to hear from their own lips the vile things that they had committed against what was his, a gift from nature. And yet, someone was here to distract him, to stop him from doing just that at this very moment. Voldemort, wisely, chose to set down the crystal tumbler before his hold could tighten around it, before he could shatter it. 

“What,” he bit out in vitriol, in annoyance.

The cold wrath had given way to something far darker, something far more dangerous, begging him to act on it. He could only pray that whoever was interrupting him had a worthy enough excuse because the need to hex, to find an outlet for the savagery in him that was twisting cruelly around itself, knotting up inside of him, was almost blinding.

“My Lord,” Nott had entered, flinching inwardly at the tone of the Dark Lord and dreading the fact that he had caught him at the wrong time.

After a quick bow, he straightened his spine in an attempt to feel calmer, to assure himself that he was bringing news that would earn his Lord’s pleasure rather than his fury. Silence fell over the room as he, jerkily and unsteadily, made his way over to the desk, sending a sharp questioning glance over to Severus still seated in the chair.

“I felt it was prudent to bring this to your attention,” the Death Eater explained, hesitantly extending the file out for the Dark Lord to take, “You wished to be alerted on any activity in relation to Sirius Black.”

The Dark Lord allowed his gaze to flit across his follower’s face, eyes narrowed as he tried to discern the nature of the news that Nott had brought him. He had placed an alert on the man for the simple reason that, out of all of the members that had participated in the first war, he was the one most willing to stake everything on retrieving Harri. That, if anyone was foolish enough to band back together the underground organization, it would be the man who had just lost the last piece of his dearly departed friends. 

Voldemort snatched the report from shaking fingers, unable to help himself from sneering at the trembling man, at his so blatantly obvious fear. If this is what he had interrupted him for, something as mundane as Sirius Black waltzing about London, then he wasn’t sure if he would even be able to lift the cruciatus in time to preserve the man’s sanity. However, upon opening the red folder, the anger began to ebb away to something more excited, something twistedly gleeful in nature. He lifted his eyes in incredulous regard before turning back to the paper before him.

“You are sure?”

“Yes, My Lord,” Nott dipped his head respectfully, cool relief flooding through him at the abrupt change of mood, “Grimmauld Place has had an unusual amount of activity over the past few hours.”

Voldemort tore his eyes from the file back to the windows as he digested the information. This is what he had been waiting for, what his patience had sown. After all, he had placed Wormtail outside of the Black home for almost a day now, instructing him to keep track of any arrivals coming and going. And oh how he had delivered. His very own Judas, betraying his friends once again in desperate attempts to secure favour and praise within his inner circle. It almost made him want to laugh at the lunacy of the fact that Pettigrew had, essentially, repeated the same surveillance that had led to the deaths of his dearest two friends, that he was so readily turning on the remaining two. Truly, the rat did suit the sniveling man the best, finding that he contributed more as a rodent spy than he ever did as a human.

Voldemort spared a quick glance at Snape, his gaze hardening for a second, “You are dismissed for now. But do be ready, Severus, for when I call you again. I have a feeling that you will be quite _useful_ in my little excursion.” 

As the dark-haired wizard nodded in his periphery, eagerly fleeing the room, he retrained his attention back to the logs detailing all of the apparitions that had occurred just outside of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. If memory served him correctly, however, the residence was declared as abandoned which meant a sudden increase in foot traffic could only point to one thing.

“Bring me the registry of Sirius Black’s holdings,” the Dark Lord instructed. 

A snap of fingers and thick tome of a book appeared, its pages magically parting for the entry he had been looking for. A wide smile, full of teeth and predatory in temperament, blossomed on his features as his eyes darted wildly across the page. They landed obsessively on the properties listed under the Black name, particularly on the line for Grimmauld Place. ‘Tertiary residence; Vacated, _’_ he mused, triumph blooming in him as his theory was confirmed. 

It was clever, in a way, for Sirius to allow the Order to gather in a supposedly empty ancestral home in the middle of London. After all, they were generally well warded and the masters of the house could dictate who could come inside and who was outright denied entry. However, Sirius seemed to be ignorant of a little secret, of a not so well-known fact regarding the function of familial wards-- they could never refuse those who had the blood running through their veins of the one that had originally casted them. In light of this, in the face of something so ancient and resolute, the wishes of the master of the house were completely nulled. And how lucky for the Dark Lord to have currently 4 descendants of the Black family tree at his disposal. The Order was doomed, within his grasp, ready for the taking and an eagerness overshadowed all other emotions. 

Voldemort tore his gaze up from the file, eyes alight with twisted glee, with warped elation, “Fetch Bellatrix.”


	39. 12 Grimmauld Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello every one, here's the next chapter that you have been waiting for! I ended up splitting it into two parts because it ended up being quite long (almost 19 pages in total) so the second half will be up once I've had a chance to edit it all.
> 
> Apologies to everyone who also was waiting for a chapter yesterday-- I had a really crummy and stressful day and ended up going to bed pretty early because of it. 
> 
> As always, you guys are amazing and just lovely people 💕 Thank you for reading along and for every comment, kudos, and bookmark! It's been so awe-inspiring to see 💕
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

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* * *

More members had appeared on Grimmauld’s doorstep than Sirius Black could have ever expected, so many of them holding onto their coins, their summons, their beacons for the same reason as Remus did-- a memento of the past. However, many had resigned the coins to be just that. A relic from a long-forgotten era, symbolic of the time when they had all been freedom fighters. Though that had changed when the morning post arrived, a memento suddenly more than something to be hidden away in a drawer. They had all heard the trill of birdsong emitting from the coin, had felt the heat, and saw the phoenix diving in endless loops around its edges. In fact, some had even anticipated it, were eyeing the golden trinket until it had done so, willing it to life. Needless to say, it was an emotional sight upon seeing those old friends, comrades who had survived the first war, flood into the expanse of the kitchen. These were people who had witnessed the horrors that had happened decades ago but were still stepping forward out of hiding. Sirius couldn’t even recall when he had last seen some of these admirably brave wizards, had last laid eyes on Hestia Jones or Charity Burbage, had last been in the same room as the Advanced Guard. But, of course, it was all welcomed nonetheless. 

Whoever could fit had found themselves seated at the long wooden bench in the galley, while those who couldn’t were content to be scattered about, either standing or leaning against the walls. He noted that some of Harri’s own friends were here as well. Lovegood’s daughter, Hermione Granger, and the 3 youngest of the Weasley clan. How they had convinced their mother to let them come was beyond him but Sirius still smiled fondly, touched at their show of loyalty towards his not-quite-goddaughter. He had risen from his seat, a glass in his hand and ready to toast to them, to their eagerness to come out of the shadows, to band back together an organization long thought to be dead, when a sudden pop filled the room.

Standing atop in the middle of the table, its dirty bare feet amongst the fine china and looking around in a daze was a house elf. Minerva, seated nearest to the creature, reared back in shock by its sudden appearance, a hand flying to her chest. Sirius, likewise, had found himself at a loss for words, instantly recognising that it wasn’t Kreacher and more than confused by who it could have possibly belonged to. He slowly lowered the toasting goblet as silence stretched on between the gathered party. The being was turning in dazed half circles on the wooden surface, purple eyes bouncing from wizard to wizard and wringing its knobby fingers in a show of nervousness.

“Sirius?” it questioned, voice quivering just slightly, “Sirius Black?”

He blinked a few times before stepping forward, feeling even more bewildered by its purpose or where it had come from. And the briefest thought crossed his mind, a distant warning, that questioned whether or not it was wise to verbally admit his identity, to confirm who he was to an elf that could have been employed by just about anyone. 

“Yes?” he answered slowly after a second of silence, Remus’s hand shooting out in caution and gripping at his forearm. He glanced over his shoulder to take in the stern face, the tight-lipped expression, a subtly minute shake of a sandy brown head. 

However, nothing bad had happened nor was calamity wrought, as he had been anticipating. On the contrary, it was an instantaneous reaction of joy, of excitement. The elf leapt down from the table, its bare feet slapping against the stone as it rushed forward. Those too long fingers clutched at the hem of his tailored coat, yanking on it as tears misted over its impossibly large eyes. 

“Oh Mr. Black! Zivvy has been looking everywhere for you, Zivvy has!” it exclaimed, ears fluttering as it hurried out its words, “You was not at your main house, you was not! Zivvy had to go to every property you have to find you! I bring news from Miss Potter, Sir.”

Sirius stared down at the elf, unnerved, as though he couldn’t quite believe what it had said. Its words were distant, foreign, unable to stick in his addled brain. ‘Miss Potter?’ he echoed vaguely, eyeing the creature in disbelief. There was only one Potter it could have possibly been referring to it and his stomach did a nauseating flip. He barely registered the inward gasps and the exclamations of delight from those hovering about the room, sinking to one knee and desperately clutching at the thin upper arms of the elf. A logic-driven stream was shooting up warning flags that this could very likely be a trap. After all, it would be just like the Dark Lord to toy around with one’s emotions first, to give them false hope, to make them see a light before blowing out the flame. However, there was still a chance that the creature wasn’t lying, that it had truly been her trying to contact him and he clung to it as a man would to driftwood during a tempestuous storm at sea.

A maniac look shone in his grey stare, one of desperation, his voice strained in its urgency, “Harri? Harri sent you?!”

The elf gave a spirited nod of its too-large head, attempting to recall the message the kind witch wanted it to relay, “Miss Potter says she is fine and well at Malfoy Manor. But she wanted Zivvy to caution Padfoot against doing anything too rash and to think first.” 

Relief and despair flooded him simultaneously, his shaky low laughter a bittersweet thing. It truly was Harri if she referred to him as Padfoot but that only made the words all the more damning. On one hand, it was a comfort to know the exact location of where she was hidden away, that she was apparently unharmed and still holding onto her fighting spirit enough to defy Voldemort to send him a message. On the other hand, it was his worst fears confirmed-- Voldemort had put her right in the middle of his snake pit, a next to impossible feat to infiltrate. And where would they even start in formulating a plan that involved breaking into a manor constantly patrolled by Death Eaters? A villa, undoubtedly, well-warded and with a Dark Lord hidden in its tower?

Sirius’s mind began to turn, a dizzying pace that made his head start to throb, reeling as he rose on shaky feet. The mumbles and whispers from the gathered Order members went unheeded as he began to aggressively open the kitchen drawers, frantically searching for something to write with. This elf was their one way to contact her, it seemed, his one way to let her know they hadn’t, _wouldn’t_ , give up on her. A fondness, a swell of pride, at her cleverness, of her resourcefulness, subdued the rising panic just a little. ‘That’s my girl.’ 

“Sirius,” a low whisper interrupted his frenzied search for parchment, manic eyes lifting for a second to take in the hovering form of Remus at his shoulders.

There was a pinched look on the werewolf's weary face and alarm bright in his gaze. A hand, large and firm, settled on his shoulder, imploring him to stop his crazed search as the man pointedly glimpsed over his shoulder at the huddle pockets of people around the room. Their heads were bowed in whispers, trying to formulate strategies, the vaguest notions of a plan to storm the manor, to start making their presence known again.

“We need to leave. If that house elf came from Malfoy Manor, they’ll know where we are,” Lupin reasoned, tone low, urgent, trying to avoid inciting panic amongst the wizards that they had invited here. 

They had welcomed all of these people, those who had managed to escape the first war with their lives, to their home to sign away their names to the newly-constructed Order of the Phoenix. And while it should have been a joyous affair, an occasion to celebrate, it would quickly turn into a slaughter if the Death Eaters arrived. Green eyes took in the forms of Lovegood with his daughter, of the Weasley clan with their children, of Hermione Granger hovering amongst the sea of ginger hair. If a blood bath was going to occur, he would rather it happened without having children present, especially ones that had yet to even complete their schooling.

“I know,” Sirius snapped back, a soft sound of victory escaping him as he found a spare corner of parchment stuffed into a drawer full of knick-knacks, crumpled and torn, discoloured in some spots. ‘Just need a quill,’ he rummaged desperately for one, frowning when he only found a nib and an almost dried up inkpot. 

“I just have to write this and then we can go,” he explained, eyes turning unfocused as he considered the words, of what he should even say to her. 

The old professor groaned in exasperation as Sirius pinched the nib between his fingers, scrawling messily onto the aged-worn scrap. An urge drove him onwards, an obsession that whispered endlessly that Harri _needed_ to know that they still cared, that she couldn’t lose hope. That he still remembered his promise of always coming to her ‘Dark Lords be damned’. It was lunacy, he understood, taking the time out to write a note in the face of something as urgent as fleeing, as leaving, but he had a sneaking suspicion that if he didn’t, he would regret it. That if she didn’t see the note, could read how much he loved her, of how he still thought of her as his own, that she might fade away, might lose faith, might give in to the Dark Lord. ‘Just a little more,’ he thought frenzied, eyes scanning over what he had previously written in haste, trying to figure out what else to add.

“I mean it,” Lupin warned again softly, an itch in his chest, a sign of his anxiousness, his eyes bouncing between his friend and the people scattered about the edges of the room. 

Sirius had felt it before anyone else did, the shimmers and quakes of the wards giving way, the sharp sounds in the background of wizards apparating onto their front step. Grey eyes glanced up towards the long hallway in alarm, willing his hand to write faster, for his words to come quicker. Shacklebolt, dressed in brilliant purple robes, had come rushing into the kitchen not even a second later, his wand out and clenched tightly in his hands. He seemed out of breath, undoubtedly having sprinted across the entire expanse of the narrow mansion to deliver his warning. 

“We’ve got company,” he announced grimly, nodding towards Remus with a grave look, “I’ll try to hold them off while I can but we need to leave.”

There was a beat of silence before Diggle and Vance rose from their spots on the bench, their wands slipping from their holsters and silently trailing after Shacklebolt to the front parlour. Part of Sirius felt relieved that they were the ones to volunteer to help stave off the incoming Death Eaters, the pair famous amongst the Advance Guard as rather proficient duellers. 

“Sirius! We need to go. _Now_ ,” the werewolf hissed at him, irritation flaring at the fact that the man was still writing despite being told that the Dark Lord’s followers were at their front door.

Fishing his own medallion out of his waistcoat, Remus paced over to the group of children, placing it firmly into the hands of the brown-haired witch. The sounds of spellfire, of a crackling in the air, of distant shouts echoed into the kitchen. It appeared that the trio at the front of the mansion were going on the offense. 

“They act as portkeys, tuned in to a secondary base used in the first war. Everyone put a finger on it, make sure you are touching it, and say “Ignis te invoco”. It will get you out of here,” he explained in a rushed manner, glancing over his shoulder at the abrupt pounding on the front door, “We will meet up with you as soon as possible. Molly, go with them.”

Another round of shouts, desperate and barking out orders. Remus winced at the grating sound of something shattering, most likely one of the grand bay windows in the parlour. The Weasley matron sent him a grim nod and hurriedly split the group of children in two halves. She gave a reassuring squeeze to her daughter’s face, nodding in encouragement as the twins repeated the incantation, their bodies blurring away as a streak of orange. Lupin whirled in alarm as, from further down the hall, the front door was blown off of its hinges, crashing to the ground in deafening clatter. He took that as a sign that Shacklebolt’s team had failed in their mission of holding off the Death Eaters, of securing Grimmauld Place for just a second longer. 

“Oh, cousin dearest!” a deranged voice, feminine and high pitched, crooned in an off-tune way. A cackle, reedy and maddening, followed in suit of the sharp crack of spellfire, the abrupt smell of smoke suffocating in the air.

Blood turning to ice at the voice, knowing all too well who had come after him, Sirius swallowed thickly as the final group of children had been spirited away. Heavy footfalls were the only warning he had received that people had begun to flood into the halls, his thoughts bitter, ‘So much for ancestral wards.’ Despite being the master of the house, the last of the male line, his authority had been nulled in the face of something more ancient. The house was treating himself and his cousin as equals, recognising them both as products of the Black lineage and giving them a stance of mirrored rights to be in the house. The manor was refusing to play sides, to favour one over another and, not for the first time, Sirius found himself vehemently cursing the Black family name. His ears strained at the echoing footsteps, of the jostling of bodies squeezing themselves down the corridors, a slew of profanities escaping him at the realisation. Apparently, the wards not only let in his dear cousin but her ‘guests’ as well.

“Everyone needs to leave. Get to the second base and wait for us there,” the dark-haired wizard barked out, prompting the remaining few that hadn’t activated their portkeys, frozen in place by the turn of events, into action.

‘So much for a happy reunion.’ Grey eyes darted furiously about the kitchen for the small frame of the house elf. Slipping his wand out of its holster, fingers tightening around the warming wood in his grip, he looked down the dimly lit hall in apprehension. Distantly, he registered Remus reminding everyone of the incantation, of ensuring those who didn’t have a medallion could be paired with someone that did. But all of it was lost on him as he spied the bald head and too large ears, darting towards the confused elf still standing in the middle of the kitchen.

Roughly grabbing its hand, he shoved the rushed note into its palm, voice quiet, commanding, urgent. “Find Harri and give this to her.” 

He watched as comprehension dawned in its eyes, a firm nod of its head, before it blurred away from Grimmauld Place. Perhaps it was foolish of him to think that the elf, a creature bound in servitude to a family that revered the Dark Lord, would follow through on his request. After all, he was putting his entire faith into such a small being. But if it had delivered Harri’s message to him originally, he figured that there had to be some merit in the idea. That it must feel some form of loyalty towards the redheaded witch to do her bidding, to actively seek him out for her.

A scream, the smell of burning flesh, bright colours being traded across the walls in a sickening light show behind his lids. Crashes of things being broken, shattered, furniture that had lasted through the decades intact suddenly crumbling before the might of the wizards dueling within its walls. Shouts were drifting closer towards the back of the house, magic heavy in the air as Dearborn, and another young man that he hadn’t recognised, charged out of the kitchen’s threshold. There was a particularly startling thud not soon after, the dull sound of flesh hitting the wooden floor, and Sirius had the vaguest notion, a sickening thought, that it was one of their own that had fallen. A flick of his wrist and the heavy door closed, providing a false sense of security and isolating the kitchen from the rest of the manor. He knew a locked door wouldn’t do much but perhaps it could give them enough of a respite to leave. McGonagall had Jones at her side and the latter passed her coin to Remus in a solemn nod, flint eyes hard in a warning for the two Marauders not to do anything reckless. A second later and they were gone, the coin held up between the professor’s two fingers and mouth pressed into a grim line. 

“Kind of Hestia to lend us this since _someone_ has apparently misplaced theirs,” Lupin tried to make a light-hearted jest at Sirius’s expense but it fell flat, whirling on the spot as the kitchen door fell from its hinges. As natural as breathing, a second nature to him, the werewolf immediately fell into a dueling stance at the side of his companion. 

And even despite the situation they had found themselves in, despite the horror and destruction being reaped in his home, despite the fact they had yet to still escape, a thrill of rush passed through Sirius. It was like they were back in their youth, him and Remus shoulder to shoulder, ready to take on the world. And, if he concentrated hard enough, he could have sworn that James was there too, cocky smile and all.

“It’s just like old times, eh Moony?” he threw up a hastily constructed shield as a yellow spell came shooting forth from the shadows, a sickening sizzle as it melted against the protego.

He didn’t even want to know what that would have done if it had landed on him but, considering the scream from earlier and the revolting smell of burning flesh, he could make an educated guess.

“That letter better be worth it, Sirius,” Lupin muttered vehemently, wrist snapping to send a blindly directed Impedimenta down the corridor, “Because if we survive this, I might just kill you myself.”

He had been about to laugh, to point out his friend loved him too much to ever act upon such a threat, to ease some of the tension, when the werewolf was suddenly blasted off of his feet. The wizard had landed, sprawling onto the dining room table with a sickening crack, his head colliding with the table’s sharp edge. 

“Remus!” his tone was distressed, rising several octaves at seeing those dark green eyes roll back into his head, his body slumping into a lifeless heap.

Sirius spun on the spot, grey eyes blazing and ready to seek retribution, to seek vengeance when he saw who was waiting in the doorway. It was as though he had been doused in cold water, a bracing experience that shocked him into numbness, into stillness.

“Fuck,” was the only coherent thing he could say, his first and foremost instinct upon seeing his cousin leaning against the frame.

He had had the displeasure of crossing wands with her before during the height of Voldemort’s first reign. It was when he had refused to join her at her side as part of her twisted idea of family, a betrayal that she had never quite forgiven him for. Or, at least, that’s what the rather gruesome scar on his back said. 

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you, cousin?” Bellatrix questioned with a saccharine quality to her voice, clicking her tongue in apparent disapproval. Her wand, as warped as she was, tapped thoughtfully against her chin as she took in the crumpled werewolf on the ground, giving a soft tutting noise in apology, “So sorry about your little _friend_. I find it difficult to sometimes control my power.” 

It was jarring at how casual she had sounded, how quickly her attention was diverted, how flighty it truly was. One second she was occupied with the wizard on the ground then the next she was rounding on Sirius. Those dark eyes were frenzied, holding an unsettling shine that relayed how distant her mind was, how unstable, how deranged. The witch suddenly pointed her wand at her cousin, vermillion lips parting to reveal a row of gleaming teeth, a stray wild curl falling into the refined features of her face.

“But oh, how My Lord would very much like a word with you.”

A beat of a second, a moment of pause where they took in one another, family who hadn’t seen each other in decades. Then she moved, fluid and as quick as a viper striking its prey, her wand movements almost a blur. He could barely react in time, his shield poorly constructed and fizzling out the second a rather nasty strain of a cruciatus had come into contact with it. Just behind his shoulder, the kitchen’s window shattered as it took the brunt of the deflected spell. He rolled to the ground, casting out a poorly directed stupefy as he fled from the kitchen, the maniacal giggling chasing after him a chilling warning of her pursuit. 

* * *

* * *

Harri officially, thoroughly, without a doubt, hated anything having to do with etiquette, pureblood manners, and ladylike behaviour. Her day had been spent learning proper place settings, about which forks to use for what, how to politely cut up her meal and all sorts of useless information that made her head feel too small and her brain throb. ‘Why, for the love of all things holy, is a salad fork different than the one used for the main dish?’ she complained inwardly, having retreated to the balcony for some much-needed air. Narcissa, as she had come to quickly learn, was a merciless teacher, strict in her rules and high in expectations. And it was only after a no small amount of begging, of finally picking up the stem of her wine glass correctly, did the Malfoy matriarch allow her a momentary respite.

Even though it was still winter, the snow heavy about the ground, Harri had found herself enjoying the outdoors. Of being in the meek sunshine, of feeling the mild bite of the wind, of hearing the subdued birdsong. She closed her eyes, tilting her head upwards to the sky and allowing the mild midday sun to warm her skin. Unfortunately, her moment of reprieve had come to a crashing halt by a sharp pop at her side. Her eyes opened in alarm, frantically casting about the empty veranda in an attempt to figure out who had just appeared. A sharp tug on the wool fabric of her dress, she glanced down, and there was the wide-eyed house elf she had been missing.

“Zivvy!” she exclaimed, in both relief and joy at seeing the creature alive and well. It had been almost two days since she had instructed it to find Sirius and she had begun to fear the worst at its prolonged disappearance.

Chancing a glimpse over her shoulder to ensure they were still alone, she crouched down towards the creature, whispering for an added sense of privacy, “Did you manage to find him?”

It gave a hasty nod, pride swelling up in its small chest at seeing the delight in the witch’s eyes, at how pleased she was. Knobbed fingers, gnarled and thin, held out a crumpled piece of parchment, “I did, Miss. He has given Zivvy a letter for you.” 

A frown crossed her face, tugging the corners of her petal pink mouth downwards. She had expected him to give a simple message to the elf, a verbal one like hers, but for him to write a letter? It both touched her but also worried her beyond all logical reason. After all, what had to be said in writing that he couldn’t say aloud? Just making sure once more that Narcissa wouldn’t appear out of thin air, her fingers, hesitant and turning numb from the cold, unfolded the piece of scrap paper. 

> Prongslet-- 
> 
> My dear, brave girl. You truly are your parents’ daughter, as Gryffindor and fearless as they were. Absolutely genius on using a house elf to communicate with us. The Order is being reborn, as you have probably already guessed. Dumbledore is still missing but we are prepared to fight, to rise up against the Dark Lord. We will rescue you, have no doubt about that, the very second we figure out how to get into Malfoy Manor. _“Dark Lords be damned”_. Until then, be strong, Harri. Do not give in to him and do not bend to his wishes. Stand tall and firm, show him you will not be cowed. And remember how much you mean to us, how important you are. Moony and I will always love you, no matter what happens. Continue to use the elf to reach us for the time being.
> 
> **We are coming.**

> \- Padfoot

Her green eyes flitted over the note, reading it again and then rereading for good measure. Part of her wondered if this was a figment of her imagination, of a cruel trick her mind was playing on her to incite hope, to make her believe. The usage of her nickname, the assurance of their love despite seeing that damned photo in the morning post-- it all made her heart squeeze, for something warm to bloom in her. Tears began to blur the words together and she hastily wiped them away once they had started to dot the parchment, terrified of ruining the note. ‘They still care,’ she felt like floating, a sensation of relief that they saw through Voldemort’s little ploy, making her chest feel airy. They were going to save her, he still remembered his promise even if he had been forced to break it before. But now? Now, the main difference was that there wasn’t a Dumbledore to stop him from coming this time. She did her best to ignore the dark seed of guilt trying to overshadow the joy, the unbridled happiness. ‘Just wait until they learn what you are,’ a sobering thought crossed her mind and she shook her head in a physical attempt to banish it, content to deal with that little hangup later on.

Harri was drawn back to the last line of the note, the part of it bolder than the rest, more pressure applied when writing it out. A finger traced over the recessed indents into the parchment, her frown deepening. ‘They are coming but does it even matter?’ The inner dialogue had turned morose as her attention wandered back to the manicured lawns of the manor before her, jaw ticking in a nervous habit. ‘This place is crawling with Death Eaters, not to mention Voldemort. If they come here…’ It would spell carnage, destruction, spilled blood on both sides. And, as much as she despised his followers, the thought of Narcissa, of Draco, getting caught in the crossfire made her stomach turn sour.

“Zivvy,” she said hesitantly, squinting into the distance of the lawn, “How did they seem? When you told them not to do anything rash?”

The elf began to squirm, fingers knotting into its ratty pillowcase, its mind torn between telling her and causing undoubted stress or purposefully lying and risking her distrust should she ever find out. Without meaning to, it blurted out, “Miss, when Zivvy was leaving, more wizards had arrived. They were not nice at all, Miss, not at all. Mrs. Lestrange was there, I heard her, I did. ”

She whirled in alarm at the admittance, at the fact that Death Eaters, that Bellatrix of all people, had apparently been at Grimmauld. Kneeling down to be eye level with the creature, pale hands shot out to grip firmly at its thin shoulders, tone pleading, “Did they escape? Did you see if they got out in time?”

“I didn’t see,” the elf explained slowly, a pang in its chest seeing the crestfallen look in those green eyes, at seeing her so worried, “Zivvy left to give you the letter, Miss.”

‘What if they didn’t get out,’ her thoughts were a whirl of panic, of alarm, of distress. Images assaulted her of Sirius, bruised and bloodied, of Remus shackled like a wild animal and spirit broken, of their heads awaiting the proverbial chopping block. Fear, clawing her insides raw, made her shoulders start to tremble, a sensation of uselessness rendering her desperate. She couldn’t protect them, not this far away, couldn’t save them and it was all of her fault. Her fault for getting captured, of spurring the Order on, of forcing them to be reckless in an attempt to get her back. It was her fault for not escaping fast enough, for lingering to help those in the halls back at Hogwarts when she should have been running, for not doing more to fight against him. It was entirely all of her mistakes and they would be paying the price. Harri tried to swallow back the tears, to force down the lump in her throat so she could speak. 

“Zivvy, please,” her words were shaky, unstable, wavering as her vision began to blur, to distort with tears, “Zivvy, please, you have to help them.”

The house elf opened and closed its mouth in a futile attempt to refuse her, to explain it couldn’t. That it was only a simple servant, bound to its family, that it was no hero. But hearing her beg, something that no respectable witch or wizard had ever done before, seeing her treat itself as not a mere retainer, a slave, did terrible things to its conscience. How could it refuse the one human that seemed to treat it as an equal, who had always asked rather than demanded, who was horrified when it had punished itself for failing her the first time? Plus, it was instructed to assist Harri Potter in any tasks that she needed done so saving Sirius Black didn’t technically go against any explicit orders. 

“ _Please_ ,” Harri begged in the silence that followed, watching the conflict war in those owlish purple eyes. She may be incapable of helping them but the elf, who could so freely move about the wards, was not. Perhaps if she pleaded enough, it would listen, and would see how important this was to her.

A slow nod of its head, a dip that showed it was acquiescing to her requests, mouth set into a determined line.

“I’ll do it, Miss. Zivvy will help Sirius Black and the others escape at any cost.” 

Relief washed through her, an errant tear or two finally slipping past her lashes as she placed a quick peck to the leathered skin of the elf’s cheek. Harri pulled its small body into hers for a second, arms constricting in the gentlest of ways in an effort to convey her gratitude.

“Thank you,” she whispered, releasing the dazed being from her hold, shoulders going rigid when she heard her name being called. 

Harri rose on unsteady feet, fingers pressing into her eyes to hide the traces revealing that she had been crying, trying desperately to put herself back together. In her hands, the note from her godfather rested, tender sentiments that now made her heart squeeze for entirely different reasons. Part of her wondered if this was the last thing she would have from Sirius Black, if a hastily written note in barely legible scrawl would be the last physical reminder of the man. ‘Stop it,’ she chastised herself, glancing over her shoulder at her name being called once more. There was a soft pop and the creature had disappeared, though whether it was too late or not had yet to be seen. 

“Harri, it’s time to resume your lessons,” Narcissa’s voice floated out clearer, her footsteps now distinct.

She roughly shoved the scrap parchment into the emerald green bra, cursing the fact she had no pockets but not daring to hide it anywhere else where it could be possibly discovered. Drawing in a calming breath, trying to find her center and to hide her distress, to suppress those feelings of guilt and dismay and terror as best as she could, she turned on the heels of her feet. 

“I’m coming,” was her response, sparing one last peek at where the elf had stood, its imprints left behind in the snow. Green eyes tore themselves from the spot to briefly flit up to the sky, her silent prayer an earnest one. ‘Please let them be safe.’ 


	40. Blood Is As Good As Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I guess I should have /technically/ made this into two chapters but I feel like that would have just been cruel to leave you guys with such a bad cliffhanger so tada! Here's an absolute giant of a chapter.
> 
> Some warnings and words of wise to everyone before you start reading! Please be mindful of the Graphic Violence tag-- there's some gore in this chapter and, while I try not to be super explicit, it's a tad bit more descriptive than previous chapters.
> 
> Also, there's a warning for sexual content in this chapter so please be aware of that if it makes you uncomfortable! I did tag this fic as Explicit because it'll start getting a tad bit more from this point forward. **though any sexual content will have a purpose, I promise! It's not just meaningless, I swear** 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! There's a lot going on but I just wanted to combine it all into one so you guys don't have to wait between uploads for me to edit two separate installments.
> 
> As always, thank so much for the love and the kudos you guys have given this fic!

* * *

* * *

When the house elf had finally arrived back at Grimmauld Place, a soft pop as its existence materialised in the parlour, it was to the sight of absolute carnage. The air smelt of lingering smoke, of sulfur and brimstone, several of the walls now sporting charred patterns where errant spellfire had consumed the faded floral paper. Glass littered the floor from the shattered bay windows, a once grand feature of the mansion now destroyed, reduced to glittering diamonds that caught the reflection of the midday sun. Large splinters of wood were interspersed about the room, originating from the destroyed bits of furniture whose original configurations were beyond the point of recognition. Most disturbing, however, was the fact that a body lay askew across the threshold of the grand front door-- a middle-aged woman with caramel hair streaked through with grey, her brown eyes glassy and staring up at the ceiling, unfocused and dulled. A portion of her neck and shoulder had been burnt away, the skin singed and blackened in a testament to the suffering she had undergone before the final moments of her death. 

The creature recognised the woman as belonging to the Order, the severe dark robes and intricate mask missing that would have identified her as a follower of the Dark Lord. Fear jolted through its small frame, some part of it dreading that it had arrived too late, that the damage had already been done. ‘No,’ it thought firmly, shaking its head as it forced its disinclined feet to move, ‘I promised Miss Potter that I would look.’ A frown crossed its pointed features as it gingerly picked its way through the chaos, noting with slight bitterness at how ruined the portraits on the walls were. Some had large chunks of their canvas thoroughly obliterated, their inhabitants missing from their frame and the halls lacking their usual chatter. The house was quiet, eerily so, as the elf moved through the dim corridors and past two more bodies slumped over one another-- a Death Eater and an older man with a grey beard. Zivvy suppressed a shudder at seeing the further evidence of the brutality of wizards, of seeing how quickly humans were to turn against their own kind, to kill. ‘But not Miss Potter,’ a small part of it defended the redheaded witch, vehement in its declaration and thoroughly believing in her kind heart. 

A clattering sound from the back of the house drew its attention and the house elf crept stealthily along the shadows, thin body pressed flat against the wall to avoid drawing attention should anyone still be lingering. The kitchen door was hanging by a single hinge on its frame and Zivvy peered curiously through the hole, eyes widening. There, sprawled in the middle of the room and below the table, was an unconscious man with sandy brown hair. And two more were hovering about him, dressed in cloaks and bronze masks, lower-ranked followers of the Dark Lord the elf realised.

“What should we do with ‘im?” one questioned, kicking the foot of the unresponsive man at his feet, his hands resting at his hips in a show of exhaustion.

“Wait until Lestrange is done with her fun, I guess,” the other had responded idly, head shooting up as the ceiling above them quaked. 

Zivvy followed their gazes, nodding to itself in excited determination that Sirius Black was more than likely still in the house and, probably, alive as well. Purple eyes trained themselves back to the unmoving wizard, drawing in a breath and refusing to exhale as its body bled from view. When it had slipped into the galley, the unstable door had creaked causing both dark-robed men to whirl on the spot, their eyes flickering behind their bronzed veils to see who could have possibly come back. Naturally, they were entirely caught off guard as an unseen force levitated them off the ground, the house elf doing so easily with a snap of knobbed fingers. Their cloaked bodies slammed roughly against the ceiling before crashing back down to the earth, masks falling from their faces as their eyes rolled into their heads from the impact. The transparency veil had melted off the creature’s skin as the body of Remus was tenderly lifted off the ground.

“No touching Miss Potter’s friends,” it stated determinedly, unwaveringly, a quick nod of its head before it hurried up the stairs. 

* * *

* * *

There were very few things that Sirius Black could say he genuinely feared in his life, most things not even coming close to phasing him. It was his recklessness, his bravery he supposed, that afforded him the luxury of having the list of things that made his blood run cold be quite short. But his cousin, undoubtedly, was at the top of that very small list. And for good reason too-- only a fool would not be terrified, to not be scared witless, when having to face Bellatrix Lestrange in battle. He had currently found refuge behind an overturned coach, having sent a spray of black mist through the room to give him momentary respite from her onslaught, to let himself catch his breath and to allow his frantic mind to formulate a plan.

It wasn’t that he was a terrible dueller, no that was far from the truth. In fact, all pride aside, he was probably the best amongst the Marauders, having defeated his friends several times in their low stake matches. No, the truth of the matter was that his dear cousin was just that _good_. Whereas her sisters had always been avoidant of violence, Bellatrix had thrived in the face of it, in using her magic for offensive manners, in using it to make those before her cow and tremble. She had no problem utilizing even the darkest of spells, in tapping into the endless reservoir of her magical core and it was frightening to see how imaginative she could be, how ruthless and unforgiving. The witch bathed in the heady shadows, in the corruption, of the Dark Arts in a way that was unprecedented, forever driven on by its alluring call. In fact, if anyone had ever asked him for his honest opinion, he would argue that’s part of the reason why she had slipped into the infamous Black madness so quickly, barely even in her late 30s and already of unsound mind. And if her brutality and impressive core wasn’t enough of an issue, there was the problem of how quick she was. Her reflexes were almost inhuman, her wrist movements a blur to the extent that he couldn’t even predict what spell she was going to fire next, though try as he did. Their entire fight had pushed him into the defense, so much so to the point that he was now hiding behind a couch and trying to rethink his tactics. Part of him was, begrudgingly, impressed with her as he was painfully reminded why she was considered the Dark Lord’s right hand, his most trusted general, his own personal Cerberus. She truly was a nightmare personified.

A pained wheeze escaped him as he clutched desperately at his lower thigh, just a few inches above the knee. His dearest cousin had hit him with a rather nasty diffindo and the resulting gash was bleeding rather heavily, spurred on by his constant movements. He could already feel the endless bruises blooming under his skin, the soreness in his body, the sweat that clung stubbornly to his skin. It was a simple and damning fact that he was taking quite the beating, that he would soon give out from exhaustion if this continued on any longer.

In the background, Sirius could register her coughing as she inhaled the black mist, the sound giving way to a delighted squeal of a laugh. It truly was an irritating sound, one that reminded him all too well of her fragile sanity, sending chills down to his very bones. He occupied himself by hitting his head against the couch’s upholstered back in a vain attempt to figure a way out of this mess, trying to spark ideas through the rhythmic motion. 

“Well, little cousin, aren’t you just full of surprises!”

A wicked smile parted her painted lips, her tongue running over the front-most set of her gleaming teeth as she released a curl of wind about her feet, the fog swirling away from her as a result. The mist had mostly disintegrated by now, dark eyes bouncing about the destroyed entertainment parlour for where her target could have possibly hidden himself.

A reedy chuckle and her pointed boots began to thread their way through the rubble on the floors, stray pieces of glass being crushed under her weight. The once handsome oak floors now sported splinters and cracks where entire boards had been ripped up from their nailed in positions, other spots escaping with the simple mercy of scorch marks. Remnants of an ornate chandelier lay in a fine dust about her feet, the drapes burnt from the wall and upholstery from the settees scattered about. This is what she lived for. Seeing the chaos, the product of her destructive magic, of seeing that she had the power to incur such wrath, such damage upon her environment. That she wasn’t limited by, confined and shackled to the expectations of her mother, of the cursed role of being a simple docile ‘lady’. In a way, Bellatrix found herself beyond delighted to see this damned house being ruined, the root of her childhood misery, that she was able to eradicate everything Druella Black had once stood for. A wicked thought crossed her mind and she couldn’t help herself from vindictively spitting onto the floors, daring her mother to watch her, to turn in her grave at the sight of what her most disappointing daughter had become. 

“Though, Sirius, I must confess myself a tad disappointed,” she muttered, circling about the room, her heels clicking as hooded eyes landed obsessively on the couch.

A swell of anticipation filled her chest, the moment before a predator corners its prey, before the wolf sinks its teeth into the rabbit’s beating heart, “After all, you’ve only been defending all day. I wonder if that’s what happens when you run with mudbloods and traitors-- you get _soft_.” 

He gritted his teeth at her goading, at her insults, ears straining as he could make out her nearing footsteps. However, even he wasn’t a fool enough to rise to the bait, to give away his location when it was the only ace he had in his hand. The doorway, a few feet away, caught his eye, his only hope to escape and he exhaled shakily at how reckless of a plan it was. After all, who knew how many Death Eaters still remained downstairs, if Remus was even alive, if he had the strength left to apparate away. But it was the best chance he had and he would be damned if he let himself be slaughtered like a pig. 

Two things ended up happening at the exact same time, both cousins having similar thoughts regarding the one exit to the room. Sirius had twisted around the edge of the overturned couch, willing his sluggish body to move as quickly as it could, to cast the spell in haste before she could become none the wiser. 

“Diffindo!” he yelled, putting a good deal of power behind the curse, happily giving her a taste of her own medicine and returning the pain he felt in his leg tenfold.

It was blindly directed, unfortunately, his hiding spot not allowing for much aim, and all he could do was pray it would strike true its intended target.

However, the very second he had done so, the witch had casted a flipendo towards the furniture he was crouched behind, having sent it flying into the wall and clipping his shoulder in the process. A sharp cry of pain escaped him as he was knocked backwards, grasping at his shoulder and groaning at the tenderness of it. He just knew that she had forcefully caused its dislocation with that little stunt of hers. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet with gritted teeth, swapping his wand to his non-dominant hand with some difficulty, the wood feeling foreign in an alien grip. He supposed their duel had just gotten even more one-sided now. Grey eyes trained on the dark-haired witch before him in wide-eyed surprise, however, upon seeing where the slashing spell had landed.

Bellatrix stumbled back a few paces in an outraged cry of pain, her hands frantically grappling at her face to staunch the bleeding. While the curse had, luckily, missed slashing through her eye, there was now a rather sizable gash from the top of her brow bone, splitting the dark hair to skirt past the eyelid, curving towards her ear and ending just below the pulse point at her jaw. Her hands were coated in scarlet, the crevices between her fingers dripping as she latched onto her injured face, bestial sounds of fury and pain tearing from her throat.

“You little bitch!” she screeched in her wrath, Sirius frozen in place with temporary shock that he had landed his first blow on her all day and quite by accident.

And then it was like a switch had been flipped, the groans and shrieks of pain suddenly subduing as she lifted her stained hand from the wound. Blood was now flowing freely without having something to restrict it, to help hold together to the flayed skin. Thick droplets splattered the floor under her feet, the paleness of her skin a stark contrast to the gore marring it. Hooded eyes stared obsessively down at the hand she had pulled away from her face, at the tacky warmth covering it. Then, ever so slowly, she brought it to her mouth, her tongue swiping a long stripe across the palm. Her lips were stained, glistening wetly in the dim lighting, her teeth coated in her own life’s essence as she trained her malicious gaze back onto Sirius. A new madness had entered it, darkening yet lighting up those black eyes simultaneously, a small demented smile tugging her at the corners of her crimson mouth. 

“Oh, dearest cousin, you are going to fully regret doing that,” she warned ominously, a soft lilt of a laugh, as sharp as glass breaking, accompanying the words.

A chill ghosted through him at the expression in her fixed stare, at how gone she truly was to be lapping at her own blood, to not even be attempting to heal herself. Sirius bolted for the door, spurred on by her promise and not wanting to test how earnestly she had meant it. While it was true that she hadn’t thrown a single killing curse at him throughout their entire duel, his faith in her self-control was quite waned and stretched at the moment. He had been so close, the pain in his leg forgotten, the ache in his shoulder suppressed by his adrenaline, when a sickly blue light had shot through his leg, a revolting snap filling the air.

It was a moment of a delayed reaction, too quick for his brain to fully be aware of what had just happened. A moment of nothingness, of numbness. Then his world exploded in pain, one that escaped words to describe, as he sank to the ground screaming in agony, in suffering. Hands fumbled blindly for his leg, the sight of the bone splintered and piercing through the skin greeting him. He felt faint at the sight, at seeing the amount of blood weeping from the puncture, at seeing his own shin, his own marrow exposed to the air. The urge to retch overcame him and he promptly did so, leaning to the side and throwing up on the charred wood. It was mainly stomach acid, a burn in the throat that made his sinuses sting, one that encouraged him to be sick all over again. He couldn’t help the hot tears of anguish, the howls of torment from tearing his throat raw as his body curled in on itself, hands gripping tightly around his knee in an attempt to stop the pain.

“My Lord said he wanted you alive,” the witch had murmured, nonchalant and blasé as though the suffering of another human was something to scoff at.

She circled about his prone form, the heels of her boots clicking loudly as she hovered above his face. Scarlet droplets, large and darker than the puddle that was currently staining the wood below him, fell thickly onto his tear-stained cheek. The room was heavy with a metallic quality, heady with the scent of iron, and it did little to calm her down, to make her see some sense, to see reason. 

“But he never said I couldn’t have some fun first,” she crouched down, her warped wand trailing almost tenderly across his cheek, dragging through an errant spot of her own blood and smearing it, “I believe a little bonding time is in order, don’t you? Cousin to cousin?”

Grey eyes trained themselves on the door, barely registering as Bellatrix straightened her spine, the sickening feeling of her blood falling onto his skin delayed in processing a grimace. The words ‘crucio’ were perceived and even more pain flooded him, just one cruel layer atop another. The world around him was becoming increasingly dimmer, his vision darkening on the edges as his nerve-endings felt scraped raw, twisted and exposed to a flame. In the moment, he almost wished for death, for the sweet relief it would most certainly supply. To be reunited with his dear friends, to escape the shudders of shock tearing through his body. He thought of Harri, of failing her, of her trapped and unable to escape. That he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise of liberating her, that he would surely die right in this moment at the hands of his deranged cousin. And, at this point, he wasn’t even aware if he was still screaming or not, his throat feeling shredded, warmed, as though molten copper had been forced down it. 

And then the door flew open, the image of a small creature fuzzily outlined to him. Sirius blinked a few times, trying to determine if it was real or a figment of his imagination, a mirage his brain had concocted as an escape from the searing agony. But no--he determined it was genuine the moment Bellatrix reared back in surprise, her pout mouth forming a surprised ‘oh’, her brows drawn up. If she saw it too, it meant that the creature had to exist. That or they were both equally mad and suffering from delusions associated with rather extreme blood loss.

“What are you doing here,” the witch hissed, staring in shock as she recognised the elf belonging to the staff of her sister’s household.

Maybe Narcissa had sent it to check up on her, to ensure she was fine and following through on the Dark Lord’s will? It wouldn’t be the first time. ‘Dear old Cissy, always worrying,’ she thought with a bittersweet fondness, brandishing her wand in a dismissive wave.

“You can tell your master that I’m perfectly fine and will be back shortly,” she barked out in an order, eyes flickering back to the shaking form of the man at her feet. When the house elf made no indication of moving, however, she frowned and looked back towards it.

“Well?” she questioned, her tone haughty at its insolence of ignoring such a straightforward command, of refusing a witch, its superior. Her fingers tightened about the bloodied wand, having no reservations about teaching the defiant thing some manners if need be.

“You will not touch Sirius Black,” Zivvy intoned proudly, chest puffing out in pride that, for once, its direct orders allowed it to defy the entitled pureblood. She wasn’t its master, not the one it was bound to, so the rules of protection weren’t afforded to her. Admittedly, a giddy feeling coursed through its petite frame at the thought.

The witch only had time to blink before a burst of magic, a powerful gust, threw her backwards and into the overturned couch. A crack, the sound of wood splintering, followed as the frame crumbled beneath the force of her body, the back of her head colliding with it. The elf gave a satisfied nod as Bellatrix slumped down into the wreckage, a triumphant sound escaping its chest as it hurried over to the bleeding man.

“Mr. Black, Sir, Zivvy is here to help!” knobbed and twisted fingers ran over the broken body, willing magic into it, to right the bone and to staunch the bleeding.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a perfect fix but it would have to do for now until he could see a proper healer, one that specialised in human bodies. The creature gave a delighted clap of its too long hands at the sight of the skin slowly mending back together, relieved as the pained groans trailed off.

House-elf magic was a strange thing, Sirius had ascertained, and he wondered why they were ever subservient to wizards in the first place considering what they could accomplish. After all, the creature just took down Bellatrix Lestrange in the blink of an eye, something that he had been struggling to do all day. He could feel the wounds closing, the bone righting itself with a numbing twinge despite the dull pain that still remained. While his mind was still addled, dazed from the torture, it was coherent enough to mumble out a thank you and to stare in incredulous wonder at the small being.

“You,” he mumbled, forcing to sit up as thin hands pushed his body upwards, propping up his torso, “You’re back?”

“Yes, Sir. Harri Potter sent me to protect Sirius Black, she did,” it explained hastily, purple eyes flickering over to the unconscious witch among the debris, alarmed at the moan she had just given. 

“But we must go now, Sir. Before she awakes,” a tilt of its head to Bellatrix’s indisposed form and it was, apologetically, pushing the wizard to his feet.

Part of the elf regretted having to move the man so quickly, knowing that the pain in his leg was still there, but they had to act fast if they were to leave. It gave a quick snap of its gnarled fingers and Remus’s body suddenly floated into the destroyed room.

Upon seeing the devastation crumple the grey-eyed man’s expression, the drawn features of grief, Zivvy rushed out to explain, its hands thrown up in explanation, “Oh no no, Sir. He’s not dead! Just unconscious.” 

Sirius eyed the elf numbly, a grateful low exhale, shaky in nature, escaping him, his body favouring his right side to avoid pressure on the splintered bone. He sent a silent prayer to every god he knew for being merciful, thanking death for not taking the last remnants of his old life, his truest friend from him. Then he registered a cold hand, childlike in size, slipping into his, a tug at his navel his only warning. Number 12 Grimmauld Place, in all of its smoking glory and chaotic destruction, bled from view.

* * *

* * *

Lord Voldemort was a man of high expectations, one that liked to see things followed through, to be completed without delay and interruption. So when his most faithful, his most dangerous and well-equipped general had wandered in, bruised and bloodied with half of her face mangled, it made his teeth nearly crack from the pressure in which he had clenched his jaw. Crimson eyes, burning in displeasure, in tempered irritation, spared a glance at the two bronze-masked Death Eaters flanking Bellatrix. They were currently kneeling in prostration, the witch’s blood soaking into the dark carpet running the length of the office, her head bowed in shame and mortification. 

“Get out,” he hissed at the men by her side, sneering at their quick scramble to escape, to flee from punishment.

He had half the mind to drag them back, to rip their entrails from their stomach, to personally tear out every single fingernail and tooth they had, to crush their beating hearts under his heel for their incompetence. A rational part tried to remind himself that they were disposable chattel, nameless faces that made up the bulk of his ranks, that he shouldn’t waste the effort on them. Needless to say, it did very little to sate his fury upon seeing his own mind, his own reason, work against himself and his impulses.

The Dark Lord rounded on the kneeling woman from the other side of his desk, leaning against it and steadying himself as his hands gripped the table’s edges. He eyed her in contemplation, gaze narrowing into slits in a show of his ire. Very rarely did Bellatrix disappoint him and, even less so, did she show up in defeat looking as bloodied as she did now. He found himself wishing, for her sake, that she had a valid enough excuse for letting the Order slip through her grasp, for her inadequacy, for so spectacularly failing a direct command. Because, at this point, he highly doubted even her years of companionship, of her loyalty, could spare her from being on the other end of his wand. The darkest parts of him were singing for retribution, to divine her punishment without even hearing her excuses, to cause her further pain and suffering, regardless of what she might say. It was a losing battle to completely stamp it down, to fully ignore it. 

“What. Happened,” he finally grit out, unable to stand the silence, the damnable ticking of the clock in the background any further.

Knuckles bled white from the pressure in which he was holding his desk, mildly surprised that wood had yet to give way, to splinter under his administration.

“My Lord,” Bellatrix swallowed thickly, the feeling of his magic, of the electricity in the air, warning her to be careful.

As much as she enjoyed his presence, of the lesser and intimate discipline he usually bestowed onto her in private, his true penalties were ones that she had been careful to avoid at any cost. After all, he wasn’t exactly known for his patience nor for his leniency.

“We invaded Grimmauld place, per your instructions,” she explained hesitantly, her tone meek, trying to implore him to be merciful, “And had even gotten inside. Most of the Order members had escaped through portkey but we had successfully captured both Remus Lupin and Sirius Black.”

A tick jumped through his jaw, an eyebrow quirking in dismay, at her audacity for even admitting that she had captured not one, but two of the key targets. And yet, she still let them slip away, escape under her watch, her command as leader. The Dark Lord was faintly aware of the magic seeping out from him, lashing about as a feline does with its tail when angered, of its oppressive force as it settled heavily over the still bowed form of the witch, forcing her to keep looking down. With malicious delight, a spiteful glee, he observed as she shuddered under its weight, under its bestial outrage. ‘Good,’ he thought vindictively, baring his teeth in animosity.

“So. You are telling me, Bella, that you had not one but _two_ of your intended targets acquired And you, what? Let them escape? Defied my orders and disappointed me?” he questioned callously, his tone growing frigid, vexation spiking at the clock still ticking away. It abruptly shattered, falling from the wall in a rain of glass and a deafening clatter as its metal face bounced against the wood floor.

Bellatrix flinched at the sound, stifling her whimper at the sudden unexpected display of violence. She finally looked up in earnest, her eyes pleading and blinking furiously to shield her gaze from the blood dripping steadily above her bow. “

My Lord please- It wasn’t my fault! I had Sirius Black, ready to be delivered to you, when a house elf interrupted me. I would never willingly disappoint you, you know that! My loyalties are to you and you alone.”

His gaze widened fractionally at the confession, leaning off from his desk and releasing his vice-like hold on the wood. The anger was suppressed slightly, overshadowed by confusion, by bewilderment, his brows drawing together as he mused in an echo.

“A house elf?”

The witch on the ground nodded eagerly at his expression, crawling forwards only a few paces, not daring to rise to her feet or to encroach any closer without his explicit permission, “Yes, My Lord! It was a house elf who had incapacitated me and spirited away my filthy blood traitor of a cousin.”

Crimson eyes went distant as he stared, unfocused, towards the door, trying to comprehend the new information, to digest it. His mind mulled on it, turning the details over again, replaying her exact words. It was true that elves were powerful creatures, capable of extraordinary feats, their magic only bound in a contract to avoid using their abilities against the immediate family it serves. But who would send such a servant to a raid, who would have had the time or the insight to do such? It wasn’t exactly common knowledge that the creatures could even attack a witch or wizard, most believing them to be inferior and incapable. 

“But please, My Lord, you have to understand that my sister is loyal to you! She would never willingly stand against you,” the dark-haired woman rushed out, trying to retrain his attention back to her, to find clemency for her sister, to grant her a pardon for something that was surely a misunderstanding.

He blinked once, then twice, the corners of his mouth pulling into a frown, baffled as to why she was bringing up Narcissa. Red eyes dragged themselves from the door to the witch still on the floor, her lower lip quivering as she begged.

“Your sister?” 

A spray of wild curls lifted into the air as she nodded vigorously, soberly, feeling a well of hope bloom in her that he was listening, “Yes, I recognised that elf. It was employed by the Malfoy family but believe me when I say Narcissa would never dare to go against you, My Lord.”

The fury was back with a vengeance, cold and undulating in his chest, the urge to humorlessly laugh suddenly overcoming him. ‘Of course.’ Things began to click into place, an idea already forming of who had sent the creature, the only person who could be foolish enough to actively inspire his wrath. His lips thinned in displeasure, a bitter taste coating his mouth at the revelation, his fingers twitching involuntarily in a pressing urge to seek her out, itching for his wand. It would appear that his horcrux had been busy, willful, finding ever new ways to spite him. His tongue brushed over his canines, trying to stop them from elongating as his temper rose to a surmounting wave, spurred on by her disobedience. Apparently, he had yet to instill into her that a rebellious nature would only bring her suffering, that being a spiteful unruly thing was not in her best interest. But fine. If she needed another lesson to get it through her pretty little head, he was more than game. 

Long legs crossed the short distance to his most faithful, a pale hand reaching out to lightly tilt up her chin towards him. Judging from the look in her eyes, the fear dancing in them, the expression that he had been wearing was one that openly relayed his frustration, his dissatisfaction and that she must think he meant ill will towards Narcissa. 

“I believe you, Bellatrix,” he murmured softly, trying to reign in his temper, to not so blatantly wear his emotions on his sleeve, to lock it all away.

Of course, it seemed that was Harri’s special talent, her hidden skill-- she made it so hard for him to keep his self-control intact, constantly pushing and prodding his limits. He supposed that it would be wise to calm down a bit before finding her, that a distraction was direly needed to redirect some of his wrath before it was all unleashed upon her. 

The Dark Lord watched in mild interest as the witch relaxed minutely into his touch, her hooded lids fluttering closed for the briefest of seconds as she relished in his contact. It was at this point that he allowed his gaze to wander to the considerable cut on her face, finally taking the chance to discern its cause, the extent of its damage. His hand lifted to gingerly, tenderly, almost lovingly trace the outline of it. It was next to impossible to stop the smirk from blooming on his face when she hadn’t even flinched at his thumb running over it, far too gone in finding comfort in his contact, in his apparent forgiveness.

“What a shame,” he muttered, the digit running absentmindedly over the worst of the wound, pressing and digging just a tad harder into it.

The blood began to flow more freely under the unrelenting pressure, and he stared, fascinated, at the way it had begun to well, dripping profusely as it was disturbed from clotting. He watched from the corner of his eyes for her reaction, for any indication that she wanted to pull away, to deny him, to cry out that it hurt. Of course, there was none. She was his most loyal dog, after all, trained far too well to disobey him, to shy away from his touch. ‘So obedient,’ an idle thought came to mind, a faint pull at the pit of his stomach, the imperceptible tell-tale sign of something ravenous unfurling in him.

“To ruin such a beautiful face, it’s almost a sin,” he finally whispered softly, voice low, a heady quality to it. 

Quite reluctantly, he removed the pressure, fingers retreating from purposefully prodding, from instigating and testing her limits to pain. He willed his magic into the gash, to fix it, to mend it, but to leave the faintest trace of a silver scar behind. After all, she did need a reminder of her failure, a lesson to not to underestimate her opponents no matter who they were. To warn her he wouldn’t be so lenient, so forgiving, the next time she slipped up. Voldemort withdrew his hand from her face, the fingers of it dyed in her blood, the scarlet finding its way into the dips, the crevices, into the grooves of his skin and under the nail beds. 

There was the softest sound of a whimper, of dismay at him removing his touch from her bare skin. A trembling hand reached forward, hesitant fingers curling around his, guiding it back to her, dark eyes flickering up to see if he would protest. He allowed it, curiously absorbed by the action, by her intentions, as she placed his fingers to her lips, tongue darting out to run along his index finger. The pull at his navel, the hunger, the desire he was all too familiar with since regaining this form, increased, stoking the flames as she pulled his fingers into her mouth. The Dark Lord granted her the opportunity to clean him, to lap away her blood staining his skin, to take responsibility for the mess she had created. His very own Mary before him, prostrating herself and willingly dirtying herself to make him pure once more. The feeling of the flat pull of her tongue, of the desperation and the heat as she lapped at his skin certainly was an unexpected surprise to his day, perhaps even the distraction he needed before seeking out his horcrux. 

His fingers abruptly curled in her mouth, mercilessly pushing down on her tongue, eyes glittering in perverse amusement. His nails bite into the soft muscle, a surprising strength as he refused to yield the strain on it, her bottom jaw being forced open at the firmness of his hold. ‘How easy it would be to tear her tongue out,’ he thought idly, wondering if she would even resist, would even try to stop him. 

She had begun to squirm, choking slightly as he forced his fingers down her throat, a soft exhale of a laugh, breathy and relaying his enjoyment, escaping him. Tears sprang into her eyes but she kept her hands planted firmly on the ground, refusing to raise them to push him away, to deny him. This is why he loved his Bellatrix, so willing to please him, so willing to entertain him. 

He finally retracted his punishing hold, eyeing how the blood that had stained her lips only smeared further across her chin, diluted in colour by her saliva. How she truly had done a terrible job in clearing the scarlet from his own skin, traces of it still lingering on his hand, between his fingers. She glanced up at him from her reverent position on the ground, desire blowing her pupils wide until those brown eyes turned almost black. Hands, trembling and shaking, unsure but asking for permission, greedily clutched at the fabric of his trousers. Her long nails were a distracting pressure against his skin as he stared down at her impassively, an arched eyebrow raised in a question.

“My Lord,” she implored, her voice breathy and reflecting her poorly-concealed desire, begging for him to fulfill a need she had come to know quite intimately over the past few months.

An indulgent smile spread across his face, his crimson eyes nearly aglow with lust, with a perverse satisfaction at seeing her so desperately wanting to please him. He merely nodded in permission, not deeming it needed to be verbally expressed, as those quivering fingers excitedly, clumsily from a loss of blood, fumbled for his belt. Voldemort watched silently as she undid the buckles, the buttons, the zippers, his head tilting to one side as he reflected on the woman kneeling before him. It always amazed him at how keen she was, at how much she desired him-- how she wanted to please him even when she stood nothing to gain. While he had countless followers, and had had multiple partners, Bellatrix truly was on an entirely different level than the rest of them. A diamond shining among coal in the extent she went to for him, never rebuking him nor refusing. He wondered, idly, if obsession was part of the famed ‘Black madness’ or if it was simply her personality. 

His fingers went back to reach for the desk’s edge as she guided him into her mouth, insistently running the flat pull of her tongue along his length, his head. The lightest shiver passed through him as he allowed himself to feel it, to let the earlier anger be overshadowed by pleasure, to have that resentment fade slightly so he could, hopefully, be calmer when he faced his horcrux. His lids slipped shut for the briefest second at a particularly determined drag, at a rather demanding swallow, marvelling at her audacity, at her bravery when she had been cowering before him in fear just minutes prior. She truly was something else altogether, her tongue tracing a pattern as her cheeks turned hollow. Voldemort forced his crimson eyes open to watch as those dark curls bounced in time with the rhythm of the dipping of her head, a hand releasing its crushing hold on the desk to knot itself, firmly, into their wild mass. He mercilessly pulled her closer, his hips snapping forward as he did so, a breathy laugh escaping his chest at the fact she went lax rather than fight him. His hand finally eased up after a few brief moments to let her pull back, to get some air, eyes glinting in demented satisfaction as she did so without ever stopping, her gaze flickering upwards to watch him. 

His head tilted back towards the ceiling, the pale column of his throat exposed as a smirk bloomed brightly on his face. She had begun to move earnestly around him and he felt the darkness in him, the toxic desire, the monster that urged him forward-- encouraging him to take what he wanted, rise in an all-encompassing tide. It felt as though liquid fire had been poured directly through his veins, a honeyed feeling pushing him sweetly towards a cliff, whispering for him to fall, to sink, to succumb. And so he did. Behind closed lids, a flash of green eyes, too bright to be human, an exotic colour entirely of their own making. A rosebud mouth, cream-coloured skin, red hair that was taken directly from nature’s own portraits of autumn. 

Bellatrix pulled away from him after a few seconds, swallowing down the evidence of what had just occurred, her dark eyes burning with adoration at the fact that she seemed to have earned his pardon, his leniency for failing him initially. The Dark Lord finally, slowly, uncraned his neck, letting his eyes slide slowly back open as she redressed him, a contemplative expression in his narrowed gaze as he reached down. A thumb slowly, carefully, assessingly brushed over her high cheekbones, flickering across her features as he saw where the similarities between her and Harri both started and ended. The digit had wandered down to her chin, pulling absentmindedly at the bottom lip, slipping for a moment into the heat of her mouth. And not for the first time had he found himself wishing it was a certain girl kneeling before him, wanting to please him, basking in his attention, begging for more. 

“My Lord?” she finally questioned when he hadn’t said anything, her devotion bleeding away into worry that she might have done something wrong, that she hadn’t pleased him like she had thought she did. That he was going to cast her aside, tell her to vanish altogether from his sight for failing him, to denounce her entirely.

“Wonderful as always, Bella,” he finally reassured her after the silence had stretched on for too long, the anxiety in her gaze not going unnoticed by him.

He extended a hand to her, helping her up from her sore knees as a hand brushed an errant curl away from falling into her eyes.

“Go get clean up,” he instructed firmly, retracting his hand and returning back to his desk, “You have blood all over you.”

She nodded keenly, eagerly, the pride in her eyes telling him all he needed to know about what she was feeling. As the door behind her clicked closed, crimson eyes drifted over to his hand, the blood she hadn’t cleaned off starting to flake, to dry on his skin. He figured he should seek out his horcrux, to demand to know what she had done, to berate her for being so rebellious, so defiant. To make her understand the consequences of what she had done, to make her see the fault in her actions.

“What to do you with, Harri?” he murmured to himself, willing away the caking blood from his hands, leaning back into his desk chair and letting his attention be consumed by the window overlooking the atrium.


	41. Let's Take A Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here is the next chapter you've been waiting for! I have the one after this already written and I just need to give it a read through before posting-- it should be either up later tonight or sometime early in the morning!
> 
> As usual, here is my daily appreciation for you guys! Seriously, the comments and the kudos are just amazing, thank you so very much! As a writer, whenever I see a comment posted down below, it's honestly like seeing a little present you guys left me! I get so excited to read them and to see your thoughts + reactions. So just thank you to everyone who has been commenting and just showing this fic some love 💕 You are all amazing! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

* * *

* * *

It had become difficult to concentrate, her mind, understandably, wandering, distant, leaving far behind the informal dining room she had found herself seated in. Somehow, Harri was no longer at Malfoy Manor but at number 12 Grimmauld Place, frantically searching the endless rooms, the countless parlours, for any sign of those she held dear. It was too quiet, too still, as though the house had been suspended in a void without time or sound, forever immortalized. Dust was her only companion, the swirls of it floating hazily in the air as she disturbed its final resting place, dancing upwards in quick puffs to relay its agitation. A mocking reminder that no one else was here, that its owners had abandoned its corridors decades ago, had left it vacant as a standing tomb, a mausoleum in the middle of London. The floorboards creaked, ridiculing her, taunting her with each step, whispering that her quest to find life amongst the peeling walls was futile. 

Suddenly, she was rushing down the rickety stairs, taking two at a time as an urge pushed her forwards, drawing her to the kitchen. Her heart pounded between the spaces of her ribs, her mouth suddenly too dry, too parched, swallowing a surprising difficulty. The oak door loomed before her, slightly askew on its hinges as light flooded out from the crack underneath. ‘No, don’t go in there,’ some part of her screamed, trying to regain control over her body, over the hand that had placed itself of its own admission against the splintering wood. ‘Stop it,’ it grew louder, increasing in its urgency to make her turn back, begging her to forget, to leave. 

But she didn’t listen. Instead, she pushed insistently on the dismantled door as it parted with a deafening groan, the only sound she had heard since finding herself in the middle of the dreary manor. Harri felt her mouth drop in a silent scream, her body turning cold, a mute horror unable to be voiced. At the long table, slumped over it and with glassy eyes trained towards the threshold, was Sirius Black. His skin had gone blue, lifeless, his lips pale and starting to crack at the lack of moisture. A wild black curl had fallen listlessly into his face, obscuring one eye but there was still a look in them, one that accused, that condemned. Across from him was Remus, his throat slit and staining the wood a darker shade, the blood gone long chilled and starting to congeal in a puddle. She wanted to scream, to deny that it wasn’t true, that they were still fine, alive, that she could save them-

“Merlin, Potter. You really are terrible at this,” someone had scoffed, their tone full of humour and disbelief as the voice bounced about the kitchen, a bodiless specter to the scene of horror before her. 

* * *

* * *

Harri blinked rapidly in a stupor, the daydream falling away and evaporating from her mindscape as she came back into the present. Malfoy Manor had materialised around her, the room with its cream coloured wallpaper and oak wood furniture, with its ostentatious luxury and opulence. Green eyes darted about frantically, trying to calm her unsettled heart, to regain her center, to convince herself that none of it had been real. Outside, snowflakes, perfect and symmetrical in nature, had begun their lazy descent onto the veranda, a captivating show beyond the double french doors. There was the crackling of a fire behind her, warm sparks contained in a metal grate that did very little to ward off the chills tormenting her. ‘It was a dream,’ she reasoned firmly, frowning in confusion as she finally noticed the cool metal placed into her hands. A polished knife, gleaming and wickedly serrated, her fingers curled around its ivory handle. Before her, an incomplete place setting, none of the utensils straight or aligned, scattered with abandon on the blush silk placemat. ‘Right,’ addled thoughts tried to piece together what she had been doing before her mind decided to wander, to conjure up such revolting images, her hands moving automatically while her brain was preoccupied. Apparently, Narcissa had tasked her to valiantly attempt to set a table and, judging from the stifled snorts, she had been going about it entirely wrong.

“I mean, really. This is quite basic stuff,” Draco chastised in good-humour, smile pulling wide and shamelessly goading her. It wasn’t everyday, after all, that he had found something that he could lord over Harri Potter, could best her in and prove his competence.

Then he noticed how waned she looked, the grim line of her mouth, how her eyes looked a touch too glassy, her fingers trembling. He had been hovering by her shoulder, providing his commentary and correcting her in an, admittedly, rather smug manner but upon seeing her face, he held his tongue. 

“Draco! Manners,” Narcissa reprimanded sharply from her seated spot across the pair of teens, brilliant red lips twitching in their corners to fight off a frown. 

A look of consternation, of dismay, of horror was flitting across her face, just under the surface of the politely indifferent mask she wore. The blonde woman found herself unable to fully stop her manicured fingers from drumming on the woodgrain, a physical indication of her disappointment. And, as much she would never dare to admit it aloud, she found herself partially agreeing with her son. The girl truly had no talent for the refined art of place setting, despite having spent most of the day repeatedly going over its basis and rules. Pale eyes were set determinedly on the poorly arranged plate, finely shaped brows lowering in distress at the haphazard way everything was thrown together with no regard to size, function, or colour. The sight of it was almost physically painful. Narcissa eventually gave into the impulse to let out a shaky sigh, trying to find her composure, to find her calm. After all, there had to be some understanding involved in the process of teaching her-- the poor girl was practically raised by heathens, muggles with no refinement. It wouldn’t be fair to entirely fault her for her shortcomings considering the environment that she had been brought up in. 

“I believe a short break is in order. Let me see if afternoon tea is ready to be served,” the Malfoy matron finally stated slowly, her gaze tearing away from atrocity before her.

With some hope, and wishful thinking, the younger witch would get it someday. But, for now, it was wisest to enact on a tactical retreat until she could gather back up her wits, to conjure up some direly needed patience.

Draco watched as his mother fled the room in a rather hurried manner, wincing at how particularly loud the clicking of her heels were. As much as he loved the woman, would always continue to do so, her largest fault was in her lack of patience when it came to poor manners. And the pureblood found himself, for the thousandth time since his childhood, blessing the fact that he had been born a boy rather than a girl. After all, he could only imagine what hell it would have been to grow up with his mother’s helicopter parenting as a daughter rather than a son. The briefest flicker of sympathy filled him at the thought that Harri would have to suffer that role, his lips thinning as he turned back to the girl at his shoulder. A hand, tentatively, reached out to unfurl her fingers from the knife’s handle, setting it down and fixing her in his periphery with a wary stare. His mother may not have noticed it, too consumed by her disappointment, but Draco had been around the girl long enough to recognise when something was bothering her. After all, he had spent almost seven years watching her ever since she had rejected his hand, his friendship, all those years ago in front of the Great Hall.

“What’s wrong?” he finally questioned, voice soft and calming, as those too green eyes started to regain their clarity.

A hand drifted to rest at her upper back, between her shoulder blades, and he guided her down into the chair. Once she was settled, he pulled the one next to it out from under the table, rotating it so it would face hers.

Harri stared helplessly at the boy in front of her. Admittedly, it touched her that her nightmare hadn’t escaped his notice and that he, apparently, had a sixth sense regarding things that upset her. And part of her considered being truthful, wanting to tell him everything. About the house elf, about what she had done, about the hastily written note currently stuffed into the recesses of her bra. About how the Dark Lord was intent on slaughtering those she cared for and how he had sent his Death Eaters to march on Grimmauld Place this very morning in an attempt to do so. To repeat the ominous warning he had given her regarding his wishes to erase them, to annihilate, to obliterate every single person associated with the Order, no matter their age nor their degree of involvement. She wanted to tell him that she was scared beyond reason, that she felt like it was her fault, wanted to explain how the guilt that she hadn’t escaped in the first place was eating her alive. That it was all due entirely to her mistakes, to her existence, everything happening because she was his damned horcrux, shackled to a monster and unable to escape. But she couldn’t, _wouldn’t_. 

“It’s nothing,” it sounded false even to her ears, too hollow, too unconvincing.

She bit her lower lip, resolutely looking towards the window to stop her tears, to stop herself from breaking down and worrying him further. If the Dark Lord ever found out what she had done, she at least wanted to afford Draco the ability to claim innocence, to say he wasn’t privy to it and completely clueless. That it was entirely her own doing, her own admission, her own volition. And she desperately wanted to spare him from being put into that position as well. One where he was forced to choose sides, to morally afflict him by coercing him into keeping her secret, into sharing the burden. 

Pale blue eyes, almost impossibly light in the reflection of the weak winter sun, danced across her face. ‘God, she’s a terrible liar,’ he thought idly, observing the way she was gnawing on her lower lip, refusing to even make eye contact with him. In a way, it was almost endearing, reassuring, to see that she hadn’t changed. That she was still the same old Potter who wore her heart on her sleeve, who was still shouldered all of the weight so no one else would have to. It was an infuriating habit of hers that he could never understand, a saviour complex so damning and ingrained into her character that it was almost admirable. 

“Come on, Potter,” he nudged her knee with his, trying to keep his tone light, to coax her into telling him, to make her relieve herself of whatever she was feeling, “I’ve watched you for almost seven years now, long enough to know that whenever you make that face, you’re lying. Trust me when I say, on Slytherin authourity, you are absolutely terrible at it.”

A scoff of a laugh, one that she didn’t mean to do, but one entirely of its own free will, came bubbling up her chest. It was just like him to find a way to both insult yet comfort her at the same time and she found herself unable to stop the retort, missing their usual snide banter.

“Almost seven years, Malfoy? Huh, that makes you sound like a stalker. Should I get a restraining order?” 

He smiled a bit at her reply, at seeing the fire be stoked just slightly, her emerald gaze regaining some of its lost shine, “What? Don’t you realise how lucky you are to have the attention of the heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy? I dare say Parkinson would be frothing at the mouth to be in your position. Consider yourself blessed, Potter.”

Harri shook her head slightly, a small disbelieving smile quirking the corners of her mouth upwards. She turned in her seat, the tension leaving her shoulders at how comfortable it was, at how normal. If she tried hard enough, she could almost picture them back at the secret spot near the lake. Huddled next to each other against the autumn chill and skipping rocks in a competition to see whose could go the furthest, accusing one another of cheating and jesting at the other’s lack of skill. 

“Careful there, Draco,” an eyebrow raised in mock incredulity, a carefree wit to her voice as the alarming daydream bled away, “I’m worried for you. Don’t you know that an inflated ego can cause your head to swell up? And then where would you be without your pretty face? Though, all things considered, Pansy would still probably drool over you.”

His smile widened as he leaned back into his chair, arms crossing over his chest. A suggestive gleam lit up his eyes as he considered the girl sitting before him, “Is that a note of jealousy I detect?” 

Harri couldn’t quite resist the urge to roll her eyes, a minute shake of her head at his audacity, at his gall for even suggesting such a thing. Only Draco Malfoy, even after being accused of a large ego, would continue to make the conversation all about him. Her fingers drifted over to the table setting, skirting around the silk cloth, the ivory handle utensils.

“Oh, please. Of Pansy? Never.”

Silence followed a second where all he did was study her, a warmth in his chest that he had managed to distract her, had gotten her to clear the storm, to ease away the worry for the time being. His tone turned serious, though his grin was still light-hearted, bumping her knee with his once again.

“Good. Because she doesn’t even compare to you, Potter.”

The redheaded witch glanced up at him from the corner of her eye, index finger halting in tracing over the knife’s base, mild surprise making her eyebrow rise even further. Part of her wondered if this was just him teasing her, of him playing along in their little game of banter, of him trying to goad her into further retaliation. Or if it was genuine, that he had actually meant those words, was earnest in his assessment of her. And, judging by the look in his eyes, the determination in them, she had guessed it was the latter. For some reason, it caused a twinge in her heart and a sharp taste to flood her mouth. Talking to him became suddenly uncomfortable as she thought on the prospect, recollections coming back of him telling her that she looked divine, of her kissing him in a drunken haze, of him eyeing her in a light she was entirely unfamiliar with. She wished that he would stop it. That he would go back to being just Draco, the boy she could be snide with, could joke around with, could trade stinging retorts and always count on to be a pain in her side.

The smile on his face faded as he saw her contemplative expression, an uneasy air about her. Draco leaned in closer, hand rising to the table and resting near hers, not quite touching but hovering close enough, “I mean it, Harri. I’m not alone either, most of the student body would agree. And now that you’re dressing like this. Well. It suits you.”

* * *

* * *

Voldemort had been watching from the shadows, not quite materialising into a solid form as he watched in interest the way the two teenagers interacted with one another. The earlier mood that Bellatrix had helped put him in was slowly fading, dissipating at seeing how carefree she had become around the boy, how she was doling out those cursed smiles, her infectious joy. How she was so casual and, much to his irritation, bordering on flirting with the blond. Crimson eyes tracked the hand, the audacity of it, to linger near hers and spite flooded him. Stepping forth from the darkness, gaze narrowed and hands clenched behind his back, the corners of his mouth slid upwards in a show of congeniality that seemed a touch too fake.

“I find myself agreeing with you, Draco,” emphasis was put on his name, pleased when both of their heads snapped to the corner of the room where he had emerged from. Very two similar reactions for quite separate reasons, “Our Harri is quite beautiful, is she not? Especially now that she’s out of those rags.”

And even though he had said ‘our’, the implication behind the word was quite the opposite. There was a warning hidden in his gaze, a deterrent to keep the boy from verbally agreeing, from acknowledging that Harri belonged to anyone else but his Lord. It sated him well enough when the Malfoy heir had retracted his hand as though it had been burnt, at the wide-eyed ashamed look lighting up his refined features at being caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. A quick mumbled out “My Lord” followed as the chair was pushed out from the table in haste, the pureblood rising quickly to bow at the unexpected intrusion. But the Dark Lord’s attention was altogether consumed by the witch, noting in approval her doe-like stare, at the fear and shock hiding so blatantly in it. It was a completely different strain than the one shown in Draco, her reasons for such being more personal. Honestly, he found it heady, alluring, almost enough to make him forget his anger or his reason for being here. 

“Harri, come,” he tilted his head towards the door on the leftmost side of the room, a hand extended out in less of an invitation and more of a demand, an ultimatum that left no room for questioning. “Let’s take a walk.”

She looked uneasily to Draco at her side, at his bowed head that seemed relaxed but noticing, almost immediately, the hidden tension in his shoulders. Harri swallowed thickly, her mind reeling as to why Voldemort had arrived, heart hammering as she considered the possibilities. ‘What if he knows,’ her thoughts were panicked, aimless, terrified. Somehow, a ‘walk’ didn’t sound as innocent as he was trying to make it appear and, though he seemed calm enough at the moment, she knew how temperamental he was. How quick the mood was prone to changing, how his anger was a storm appearing out of nowhere. ‘Calm yourself,’ rationality berated, trying to find grounds, justification, that things were fine. After all, who knew? Maybe he truly did want to just take a stroll with her, maybe he was none the wiser to what she had done, maybe she should give him the benefit of a doubt? After all, if he knew, wouldn’t he have come in with his magic lashing about, destroying the room and with vehement threats on his tongue? 

Her head gave the small of a nod, an acquiescing motion to his request, as she rose from the chair on wavering, unsteady legs. It was more of an effort than she would like to admit to get her feet to move, disinclined to go any closer towards him, choosing to stall for a second by smoothing out the folds of her dress. ‘Calm’, she chanted as an inner mantra, trying not to let the guilt show on her face, the nervousness, the anxiety. And then she was crossing the room, eyeing the elegant hand offered to her before slipping her smaller one into his. Harri tried to ignore how cold he was against her skin as he led them out of the room, leaving behind the crackling fire and dancing snowflakes.


	42. His Greatest Masterpiece: "The Girl Who Lived"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all of my lovely readers! Thank you to everyone who has been reading along and showing me that you've been enjoying this story and my writing! 
> 
> Also, to everyone who has commented on the previous chapter--- gems and angels, all of you! Seeing comments truly does make my day and I always get so excited and eager to see a new one pop up! Thank you for taking the time out to write your thoughts and reactions, they mean so much to me as a writer and I just want to hug every single one of you for doing so 💕
> 
> As a thank you, I made this chapter a tad bit longer than usual! I hope you guys love this 💕

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* * *

Voldemort had guided them down an empty corridor, the girl at his side jerkily trying to keep up with his pace, a single step of his equating to two rushed ones of hers. From his periphery, he was studying her reactions, the pressed line of her mouth, the straightened spine, the stubbornly lifted chin, her gaze set forward and unblinking. It was as though she were openly declaring her guilt, admitting to what she had done, unashamed and unapologetic. Furious disbelief welled up in him that she didn’t even have the foresight to attempt to hide it. Exhaling softly through his nose, a small voice reminded himself of the plan that he had concocted--to give her the chance to confess, to explain herself and seek his forgiveness for so dearly costing him what he coveted. 

He steered them into a gallery, a long hall with a mirrored ceiling and walls featuring an array of fine works, sculptures and paintings alike. A collection in the making over the past few centuries, a testament to the wealth and prestige of the Malfoy lineage. The room was disturbingly quiet, a tranquil space that felt sacrilegious to even breathe too loudly in, to draw attention away from the magnificence of the art scattered about. Harri followed on tentative feet as the Dark Lord paused in front of an empty portrait frame, squinting at the gold plaque that read: _“Druella Black (née Rosier ) (fl.1955)”_. 

It was a dark painting, featuring a high backed chair in front of a fireplace, the woman in question missing altogether. ‘Enchanted then,’ she had idly decided, watching the flames dance in the mantle and the curtains framing the window sway with an invisible breeze. Confusion coloured her expression as she peered at the rendition of an old entertainment parlour, trying to puzzle out as to why Voldemort had felt the need to show her this in the first place. After all, it wasn’t like she had ever met the woman before nor had any connection to the painting that would indicate it as being important. ‘Perhaps it was someone he knew?’ Harri thought to question him, to ask who she was, but she felt intimidated, unwilling to disturb the silence. 

“Narcissa felt the obligation to bring the frame with her,” scarlet eyes slid from the empty canvas to the bewildered girl at his side, her hand slipping from his the second he had spoken. The strangest urge to grab it again appeared in the back of his consciousness, to tighten his fingers around hers, to demand that she only let go when he allowed it.

“It was after Grimmauld Place was labelled as vacant. She explained that she would have felt terrible to leave her mother behind in an empty house.”

The perplexity encircling her mind only increased at his explanation. Finely shaped brows knitted together as she busied herself with making out the details in the dim background of the illustration. It was a vain effort, a difficulty, to avoid looking over at him. To her, it was entirely news that her not-quite-godfather’s home was supposed to be abandoned and she couldn’t resist the impulse to know why.

“Vacant?” 

The Dark Lord hummed noncommittally, feeling triumphant in getting her to respond, her interest quite damning. Her body language, the tone of her voice, the way she seemed to hunger for more information. The girl was all but admitting that she knew that the Black residence was far from being empty and it was almost laughable at how quickly she was falling into the trap.

“Whenever a pureblood inherits another estate, they are required to register it in the Ancestral Properties Holding codex. Sirius Black had labelled Grimmauld Place as a tertiary residence and, therefore, vacated. Quite a terrible shame, really.”

He had moved on from the portrait, smirking to himself as she hurried behind him after a brief second of pause. The gears in her mind turning were practically audible, her puzzlement brightly bleeding through to their bond. Once his steps had halted in the center of the marble showroom, he indicated with an open hand for the girl to freely explore. She skirted by him warily, marvelling at the statues lined against the wall and letting the weighty silence settle between them. With her back turned, her attention consumed by her thoughts as she drifted about the exhibitions, circling the sculptures in mild interest, Voldemort allowed himself a moment to study her. 

Contentment bloomed, a distracting sensation from his anger, as he noted she was wearing one of the dresses that he had personally chosen. It clung to her form in a flattering fashion, the bodice tight and the nip of the waist defining before flaring out just slightly at her hips. The scooped neckline did wonders for her shoulders, for her decolletage, the auburn hair pulled back to highlight the recessed grooves of her collarbones and the well defined hollow of her throat where his insignia lay. And there, on the right side, a shimmer of silver where his bite mark had never fully healed, scarred over as a permanent reminder of his claim. He would be lying if he said that the sight didn’t fill him with pride, with smug triumph, had almost been enough to make him forget her shortcomings right then and there. 

She appeared at home amongst the artwork, her cream skin almost the same shade as the marble busts, its texture just as smooth, as unblemished. If she had remained still, she easily could have been mistaken as part of the installations, a lifelike rendition of autumn personified. And he wondered if, perhaps, she should just remain in this gallery forever. That it would be easiest to curse her with eternal sleep, to lay her on a bed of roses amongst the grandness of the showroom and keep her locked away as his own Sleeping Beauty. With her eyes sealed permanently shut, her willful nature wouldn’t be a problem, and he would be content to stare at her, to enjoy her loveliness without the disobedience that accompanied her waking state. But of course, he knew that, deep down, he was lying to himself-- he would never be content with just looking.

“Of course, the strangest thing has been happening over the past few days. There’s been quite the flurry of activity coming from the manor, despite it being supposedly vacant. One can’t help but wonder if Mr. Black might be attempting to move in, considering the foot traffic,” he stated casually, pale fingers wandering to trace over the nose of a rather handsome bust.

And there it was-- her rigid reaction, the quickening of her heart, the stumble in her next few steps. He wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he wanted her to verbally confess to her wrongdoings or to keep playing ignorant. The latter sounded far more enticing than the former, if he was being truthful. 

‘He knows,’ emerald eyes shot up in alarm, fixating on his nonchalant expression, on the calmness in his posture. The image of a coiled snake, ready to strike at any minute, came to mind. Harri cursed herself for being this stupid, for not seeing it sooner, for not hazarding a guess as to why he had shown her the portrait, for hinting about the Black home. There were so many clues and she hadn’t seen any of them. The empty gallery suddenly seemed too quiet, too removed from the rest of the manor, too secluded. It made her stomach turn sour as she managed a soft ‘Oh’ in response. Her feet instinctively moved on to another statue, eager to put distance between them, to keep out of his arm’s reach. Logistically, she knew he wouldn’t kill her, would refuse to do so in fear of harming his soul within her, but she didn’t feel like testing the boundaries of his patience nonetheless. 

‘It appears that she wants to keep playing dense,’ his thoughts had taken a spiteful turn, tongue running along his teeth at seeing her back away on faltering legs. An image of a newborn deer, a fawn trembling in the face of a greater threat, formed in his mind and he mirrored her steps. A few forward while she took a few back. It was a delightful little game, a dance they were engaged in but he found himself tiring of it rather quickly.

“Did you know, Harri, that whenever a house elf leaves the wards, its destination is magically logged? Well then again, judging from your expression, I’m guessing you were unaware of that little fact,” he explained, his clipped accent drawling in his ire.

Those blood red eyes narrowed marginally as her hip clipped a podium in her haste to stumble backwards, the marble bust atop it wobbling precariously. 

“So you can imagine my surprise when a certain house elf, one that I had assigned to you out of good faith that you wouldn’t abuse its powers, appeared not once, but _twice_ at Grimmauld Place,” his voice had dropped an octave, the opportunity for her to confess, to explain herself, long gone.

Distantly, he registered a sharpness, both acidic and astringent, coating his tongue, his fangs threatening to elongate in an intuitive response to his rising temper. 

A slew of curses ran through her mind as he insistently moved closer, the glow of hellfire clear in his gaze, the lines of his body both entirely too tense and too relaxed to indicate anything good was about to happen. Her pulse was drumming in her ears, her heart beating at an unrelenting tempo that caused her ribcage to ache, the tips of her fingers numb, vibrating. Hovering over his shoulder, at the end of the narrow stretch of the room, stood the door. Every instinct within her was screaming, begging for her to leave, to just get out and plan later. Fight or flight was starting to kick in and, it appeared, her conscious was heavily favouring the notion of fleeing.

It was an uncomfortable reminder, a sickening sense of deja vu, as she recalled the graveyard from last year. Caked in dirt and darting behind tombstones to evade the demon that had emerged from the cauldron, cornered and with only one chance for freedom. ‘And look where that got you,’ a snide remark that she tried to ignore, her hands curling in on themselves and gasping in pain when the softness of her hip bumped against a sharp corner. A damning revelation overcame her, one that made her squirm--the man before her was still the same monster, the same devil, despite now wearing a different face. 

He stalked closer to her, noticing in sadistic delight that she was running out of space, that the back wall was drawing nearer and that one of two things would happen-- either she would submit, realise she had no escape, or she would try to bolt, to try to sprint past him. And oh, how he so desperately wanted her to do the latter, to attempt, to struggle, to give him further reason to act upon his darkening mood. 

“And how ironic is it, Harri, that this elf managed to show up the very day I sent my Death Eaters to raid Grimmauld Place? That it just so happened to appear amidst an attempt to capture the Order?” he was nearly whispering at this point, the words carrying nonetheless in the deafening silence of the room, “That this elf managed to spirit away both Sirius Black and Remus Lupin from right out underneath my most faithful?”

Despite the situation, hope filled her and an odd sense of optimism, of relief, distracted her for a beat of a second. ‘They got away,’ she thought in breathless wonder, ‘Zivvy did it.’ But then she was brought back into reality as the sculpture nearest to her suddenly ruptured, exploding with a deafening crack, a startled yelp of surprise escaping her at the violent display that had caught her off guard. Uneasily glancing back to the Dark Lord and seeing his jaw ticked, shoulders drawn taut, made her realise the gravity of the situation. His magic was an electric pulse in the air, suffocating, one that made her head hurt, for the ground underneath her to spin, for dizziness to overcome her. She bolted for the door.

As though he were humouring her, Harri had made it a few paces past him, past the sculptures, when a sudden force slammed into her side. One minute she had been sprinting then the next she was pinned against the opposite wall, her feet leaving the ground for a second as she was airborne, tossed about like a ragdoll. A wheeze of pain, a low groan, as the air was forcefully expelled from her lungs during the impact, her shoulder throbbing as it collided with the glass. It was a blur of black-- one second had been standing a few feet from her and then the next he was crowding her, caging her in, his face pulled close to hers.

“You foolish girl, do you have any idea of what you have done?” he seethed, tone quiet and level, a direct contrast to the heat in his eyes.

Harri had come to a frightening conclusion, staring up into his face and trying to regain her breath, that he was not the type of person to yell when he was angered, not the kind to scream and turn red like her uncle. No, he was the type to remain outwardly intact, composed, to not raise his voice but to get his point across with cold words and forceful displays. And part of her desperately wished that he was the first kind. The one that she was used to dealing with, the one that she had come to know so well on how to avoid and how to de-escalate. Here, standing before his wrath with his magic constraining her, smothering her, she was at a loss for how to respond.

“I was going to grant whoever would renounce the Order clemency, to forgive and pardon them. I even instructed my followers to bring back your precious friends alive for this very reason,” his tone had become a hiss, almost bordering on parseltongue as his glowing gaze searched hers for comprehension, “But you have marked them as traitors, as fugitives. Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, that house elf, all damned because of your recklessness.”

The world had finally come back to her only to melt away just as quickly in a dizzying whirl of colours, his words registering and sinking in. It was like she had originally feared--it was her fault, Voldemort having all but confirmed it aloud. ‘They could have been safe,’ her thoughts were turning over in a horrified circle, an endless loop. ‘But I ruined their chance.’ Her breath suddenly seemed too rapid, too short, too shallow, not enough, a rising sense of panic blinding her. He wasn’t the forgiving type, that was a truth she had come to know intimately, and she doubted he would extend that kindness, that mercy, to them once more in the light of what she had done. Harri winced as his hold on her wrists tightened, her mind reeling from his admittance, obsessively clinging to the fact that he had specifically mentioned Zivvy. Why was he bringing the elf into the mix when all it had done was follow her orders, like it was forced to, when she had been the one to take advantage of it? 

She fumbled for words, her tongue too heavy in her mouth, her coherency scattered and lacking, “What did you do?”

His burning gaze slipped down for a second at her gulps for air, at her chest heaving in an effort to even out the intake of air, at the terror causing her to hyperventilate. And a portion of him, vindictive and twisted, thought that this was perfect, that she should understand what her rebellion, what her spitefulness and rashness, would reap in the end. His lips parted to explain the fate of the creature, the cruel words already on his silver tongue, when something odd caught his attention instead. 

Sticking out from the very corner of her neckline, tucked away in her undergarments, was a scrap of discoloured parchment. Voldemort latched onto it, a man possessed, his fingers skimming callously past the scooped opening of her dress and only barely registering the softness of skin that brushed against his. Judging by her protests, her screams for him to stop, she hadn’t wanted anyone to find it, to read it. Least of all him. 

It was a crumpled scrap, barely legible scrawl, and he frowned in puzzlement at what this little piece of paper could have meant to her. With a flick of his finger, he pushed his magic outwards to keep her against the wall, pinning her in place as he released his hold on her. Turning slightly away, deft fingers quickly undid the wrinkles and creases. She was struggling in the background, trying to uselessly lift her hands, yelling that he had no right to read it, to look at it, to hold it. Of course, her reaction only spurred him further on. He was driven by a curiosity, a thirst to know what had gotten her so worked up. 

A moment of stillness, a disturbing hush, followed as he processed the note, its bold declaration that they would not yield to him. The encouragement for her to do the same, no matter the cost, to not to bend to him, to submit. Then he had landed on the bolden words, the indentations indicating that they had been written with force, with passion: **“We are coming.”**

A delayed reaction as the Dark Lord mulled over the letters, the brave message, its intentions to steal away what wasn’t theirs. To take her, to claim what rightfully was his and what had been kept from him for 16 long years already. The lights overhead began to flicker dangerously, a savageness erupting that made him want to bare his teeth, to maul and maim whoever was foolish enough, mindless enough, reckless enough to oppose him in such a way, to dare thieve her away from him. If the urge to destroy the Order, to annihilate Sirius Black, was an ember before, a simple burning coal, it had now been fanned into an inferno. The rising wrath bled outwards as it consumed the note in his hands, lifting it upwards in brilliant flame. 

Those red eyes, narrowed in incensed ire, slipped back to the wisp of the girl pinned against the wall, scrutinizing her, studying, dissecting. He had initially thought it was a simple request for the elf to save her parents’ friends, a demand made in passing and without any further contact from their side. But, apparently, he was wrong. She had been passing messages, or at least that’s what the note had implied, and had been receiving them as well. That there was more to it than a wish to save them, a hope they’ve been trying to inspire in her, a promise they would rescue her, save her, whisk her away. It was one that he wanted to crush beneath his heel, to grind into the dirt.

“You’ve been _communicating_ with them,” he accused slowly, attempting to reign in the tempestuous fury welling inside him, begging to be unleashed, to break free, to sow destruction, damage, chaos. 

No small part of him was terrified at the idea of her being stolen, spirited away with no clue as to how to get her back, of her being destroyed the very second they found out what she was. That they would, undoubtedly, eliminate her when they discovered how precious she was to him, what she meant, use her as leverage against him. And the slip of the girl, the one thrashing against the mirror, was entirely clueless as to the danger she would be in if they had succeeded in their mission. Suddenly, the idea of putting her behind a case, a crystal coffin, keeping her forever at his side in containment was more than appealing.

“What did you do?!” she demanded, her eyes pleading with him to answer, keening to know what had happened to Zivvy, why he had even brought the creature up in the first place. 

Images of the purple-eyed elf materialised in his own minds eye as he, unintentionally, slipped into hers. It only served to further increase his displeasure upon seeing her attention had wandered, that it drifted away from him. Voldemort stalked over to the witch, the ashes of the note falling to the ground in a blackened heap. A hand shot out, bruising, as it wretched her face towards him, squeezing experimentally on her jaw.

“That elf was damned the second it raised its hand against its superiors,” his words were cold, practical, clinical, “But if you must know, Harri, should I bring out its body? Let you look upon it until you’re satisfied, until you come to understand what you have done?” 

She blinked owlishly up at him in shock, his words slow to register, the implications unclear for just a second. Flashes abruptly materialised behind her lids-- a decapitated body, a small frame coated in scarlet, the head rolling away on the ground with glassy purple eyes. Somehow, though she didn’t know how she exactly knew, it was real, too vivid in detail to be anything fake or a cruel trick. Then a horrified dawning overcame her as to why. It had been _his_ memory. Voldemort had purposefully let her in, forced her to see it through their connection. Of its own admission, a pit formed in her stomach, a lump in her throat, the concept of time slipping away as the urge to retch made itself known.

‘He murdered her. Put Zivvy down like a dog,’ her inner thoughts were filled with horror, with nausea as she desperately searched his eyes for any sign he was lying, any sign he was aiming to deceive her. There was none. The vision of him before her began to blur, to distort, to obscure and she was distantly conscious of the fact that an errant tear had slipped past her lashes, another following in quick pursuit. 

“You’re a monster,” she hissed out with bitterness, with meaningful venom. Harri wrenched her head from his hold, red hair slipping out from the emerald silk tying it back, green eyes blazing behind their wet sheen.

“That may be so,” he agreed lightly, a heavy weight in his chest as he forced his magic to remain inside, the feeling uncomfortable as it shifted under his skin. He allowed her to break from his hold as he took a step back, desperate to find the eye in the mounting storm, “But I am the monster that you can never escape from, love.”

A flick of his index finger and the invisible force holding her against the wall evaporated. Harri slumped down against the floor, her auburn hair spilling over her shoulders in a startling contrast against her pale skin, fluid fire, her gaze trained mutinously up at him. A hand of its own accord went up to rub at its twin’s sore wrist, the bruising of it fueling her forward, feeding the sparks in her chest as dry kindling. Overwhelming resentment began to bubble under the surface and she wanted nothing more than to make him hurt, to make him pay, to have him feel her grief for once.

“Let its death serve as a valuable lesson to you, Harri. Your actions now have _consequences_. You want to be treated as an adult, then fine. This is what it means to be one. Everything you do, every move you now make, has repercussions that you must be prepared to face,” he sneered down at her, her emotions spilling over into their link. 

The Dark Lord bared his teeth, fangs elongated and catching the light wickedly in an attempt to make her submit before him. If she wanted to fight, then he was more than willing to oblige. The logical side of him that cautioned for leniency was long lost in the cacophony of his emotions, disappearing when confronted by something more primal, more bestial, savaged and untamed. 

Harri rose on shaking legs, her unearthly green eyes flashing at his attempts to make her yield to him, to make her surrender. ‘Well screw him,’ a small voice encouraged in the back of her mind, full of vitriol and prompting her to stand her ground. He was treating other’s lives like they were a game, something that he had control over and she would be damned if he tried to exert that influence over her family, her friends, any longer. 

“ _So you what,_ ” the words came out as a hiss, her tongue slipping into their shared language under the influence of the swirling anger inside her core. 

Her vision began to tint red as he unwaveringly took a step forward to meet her own. As usual, logic and common sense were overruled in the wake of her temper, Harri finding herself ignoring the fact that he was the one with a wand, the one who towered over her, the one that had most power in their relationship. But, sweet Merlin, could she care less. Her chest felt as though it were on fire, her blood molten and unbearably warm. _“You murdered a house elf for obeying its orders? For what it was forced to do? For following its nature?”_

Voldemort could practically see the frayed cords of his self-control slipping away, twisting and breaking at the sight of her continued defiance and spite. He supposed that he shouldn’t have been surprised, considering where she had gotten her resistance to authority from. Yet, somehow, that made it all the more damning. A distant portion of himself did appreciate her bravery, her confidence, her spirit. Had valued the magic he could taste on his tongue, a signature so close to his own but holding just a tinge of something unique. But that admiration was altogether eclipsed by the fact she was spitting on his mercy. He had been generous in using the death of one measly servant, already doomed to the gallows, to impart a valuable lesson onto her that may save her life one day, hadn’t even forced her to witness the execution, could have used someone far more important to her in his example. In all sense of the word, he had been forgiving and she was scoffing at his efforts. 

“ _Harri_ ,” he warned, willing her to hold her tongue, to stop talking as he struggled to suppress the feelings coiled tightly in his chest. 

The Dark Lord couldn’t help himself from flicking his gaze downwards to the column of her throat, the hurried pulse a siren’s song attempting to obliterate the already crumbling walls of his control, of his restraint. How easy it would be to bleed her out, to bite and tear, to find the piece of him deep inside her and crush it between his teeth. It was as though she possessed zero clue as to how fragile she really was, how vulnerable, how he could extinguish her life as easily as snuffing out the flame of a candle.

 _“You’re upset because I-what, exactly? Chose the side of my friends, my family, over you?!”_ She felt adrift, consumed by both ends of the bond filled with irritation, with unsettling rage. Part of her even wondered if these feelings were solely her own or if they belonged to him as well, influenced and swept along by the tide of his emotions. _“I’m never, ever, going to willingly choose you or your side. I’ll never abandon them for you, ‘horcrux loyalty’ be damned! Because, guess what? I don’t owe you a single god damn fucking thing!”_

Small hands reached up to push firmly at the center of his torso, enough force put into the action that it caused him to stumble. Crimson eyes blew wide in momentary shock at her physicality, at her undaunted attempts to create space between them. One of the mirrors on the wall cracked, splintering in a spiderweb pattern down its center, and, for once, he couldn’t figure out if he was the one to do it or if she had. 

Voldemort trained a frigid stare down at her, recovering rather quickly from the surprise of her shoving him. The flames in his soul froze over in the wake of something darker, something far more dangerous than rage, than simple anger. It was an unknown entity that was acrimonious, deified, a consecrated power that separated him from lesser men. The kind that brought the world to his feet, made nature quiver and bow to his will. That forced the heavens to part and for the stars to shine his name, divine his glory, in their celestial bodies. 

“That is where you are wrong, Harri. You will choose me and do you want to know why? Because you are mine, made from me, a piece of my marrow and magic. I hear your insipid little thoughts, your worries about what will happen if your friends ever discover your true nature,” he stepped forward calmly, once, then twice until the tips of his shoes bumped against hers.

The Dark Lord towered over her, stare glinting with cruelty, with a savage truth, his tone entirely too composed, too factual, “Let me save you the trouble of guessing-- _they will kill you_.”

“You’re wrong, they would never-,” she blinked up at him in protest, unnerved by the sudden switch in his personality, at the abrupt coldness. The dancing flames within her stomach, within her chest had been reduced to a smoldering ember, slowly dying in the face of so glacial, so inhospitable.

“They will turn on you. Tear you to shreds for being divergent, for defiling the scales of nature. For corrupting the very essence of what makes them mortal,” he interrupted her before she could even finish her sentence, those usually brilliant crimson eyes darkening. His mouth twisted wryly as though he were mocking her naivety, her unwillingness to see the truth of the situation.

“No, they-” Harri fumbled for a response, eyes widening in the wake of his words, at him twisting the knife in her wounds and exposing her deepest fears. Somehow, hearing it fall from his mouth made it the sinful truth, one that she couldn’t bring herself to deny. Images of Dumbledore came back to her unbidden, of the green light aimed towards her back, of how easy it had been for him to turn against her. Those slender shoulders began to tremble, her knees turning lax against her will, her weight becoming a struggle to support. 

“They will rip you limb from limb if it means destroying my soul,” he pressed onwards, eyes glinting in malevolence upon seeing her physical reaction.

“Shut up-,” she whispered softly, her words directed more to herself than to him, shaking her head in adamant disbelief at his cruelty. Her friends, gentle and kind, would never dream of such atrocities. Hermione, Ron, Lavender--- they loved her too much to ever consider it. But if she was so sure, then why was she trembling?

“The second that you admit you’re a horcrux, they will burn your body alive. Break your ribs and crush your heart to find the piece of me inside of you,” Voldemort seethed, his tone a soft caress of a whisper, as though he were speaking tenderly to a lover. The words tumbling from his upturned lips, however, relayed quite the opposite.

“Stop,” she begged him, her heart beating too quickly, nausea overcoming her at the images he was so vividly painting. An acrid taste filled her mouth, her senses, something squirming and clawing her insides raw in search of relief, of escape. 

“They will immolate, renounce, and forsake you. Peel you from your skin and reduce your bone to ash all in the name of the ‘greater good’,” he refused to heed her pleas, unrelenting, unwavering as he drank in the sight of her quivering lower lip, of the hopeless look spreading across her face.

“Shut up!” she finally screamed, his words too much, too real for her to take. Green eyes clenched shut as the itch in her chest imploded, pieces of the shattered statue and errant glass levitating from the ground and flying towards them at an alarming speed. All she wanted was for him to stop speaking, to stop saying such hateful things, to stop planting his seeds of doubt.

Without even tearing his hungry gaze from her, a hand, flattened and with spread fingers, shot out behind his back in response, an undulating silver shield encasing their bodies. The debris fell apart, disintegrating and fracturing into a fine dust before his might, harmless particles drifting about their feet in a whirl of white powder, “I have seen your heart, Harri Potter, I know it like the back of my hand, and it is _mine_.”

“You owe me your everything. Every breath you take, every morning you open your eyes, every feeling you have, every laugh, tear, smile. They are all due to my mercy, my soul for bringing you back to life 16 years ago when you were dead in your crib,” Voldemort crowded closer, the girl’s body forcefully pressed against the mirrored wall as a knee slipped between hers, locking her into place. He had leaned down so his face was level with hers, a forearm resting above her head to stabilize himself. She truly was a small thing without her anger to prop her up, without having her chest puffed out and her magic lashing out. 

“Please, just stop it,” she begged, a hollowness in her chest at how honest his words were, at how painful and raw they felt. Every inch of her feared that it was true, that he had seen her heart, the anxieties that had found a home within its chambers and that he was manipulating them all. Her mouth suddenly felt too dry, her throat parched, her words feeble and trailing off in the space between their bodies, “I-I’m not yours. You can’t control another person like that.”

He scoffed at her reasoning, a sardonic smirk lifting one corner a touch higher than the other, “Oh but can’t I?”

“I can make you feel pain,” he stated simply, eyes drifting up to the lighting bolt scar and willing his displeasure into it, to feel and respond to his intent to punish.

A scream tore through her throat as white-hot pain blinded her, radiating outwards from the curse mark on her forehead. She was reminded of when he had touched her scar for the first time upon his rebirth, a searing agony that made it feel as though she were being flayed alive, the skin peeled from her flesh. Every nerve ending was licked by an open flame, scraped raw as a branding iron was shoved down her throat, blistering and burning. It made her want to die, to faint, to collapse, to beg to do anything to escape it. Her spine had arched away from the mirror as tears rolled down her cheeks, a hot trail across waned skin, her teeth almost cracking as the taste of iron danced over her tongue. And then it abruptly ended, a small mercy, a blessing. Harri was secretly glad that he was supporting her weight as her knees gave out, her head slumping forward into his chest as she blinked furiously, trying to clear the haze of pain from her blurry vision. 

“Or I can make you feel pleasure,” a hand drifted up to the back of her neck, parting the curtain of red hair to lightly wrap long fingers around it. Nimble fingers massaged gently along the knobs of her spine, insistent in pressure, the buoyancy he had used against her before coming back with a vengeance. 

A sharp contrast to the earlier pain, a soothing balm to the tremors and she cursed herself for exhaling, for the sigh of relief. Her eyes slipped closed at the feeling, a glow superimposed behind her lids that she never wanted to disappear, to fade. Fingers twitched for entirely new reasons as her lips parted, instinctively wanting to move closer to the source of comfort, of the warmth. She was only distantly aware that she had burrowed further into him, breath hitching as a particularly strong wave of the feeling rolled through her. Harri was aware she should be disgusted, should rear back, should protest that he was using something so underhanded against her. To scream how dare he, especially after the pain he had just caused. But she was lost when the scent of sweet smoke, of petrichor, of something she had no name for filled her, the taste of metal being chased away by its pleasantness. 

“I can make you sleep forever, suspend you in a void if need be. I can read your every thought, if I so wish, force myself into your dreams, possess you as I do with Nagini,” Voldemort explained, reaching deep down inside for the iron will to ignore the feelings of their bond, the pull of the light, in the interest of making his point.

It was harder to do than he would like to ever admit. The Dark Lord watched in curiosity, in satisfaction, as she had leaned closer into him, gritting his teeth as he tried to forget what had occurred just a few hours ago in his office with Bellatrix, at whose face he had imagined upon achieving his ecstasy. The hand that was not rubbing unyielding circles into her neck lifted to thread itself through the auburn strands, clenching slightly so he could tilt her face up towards him. 

The look on it was one that he had seen multiple times before in his dreams, in his mind, in his free time. It was one of inhibition, of pleasure, of rapture, one that he found hard to not act upon. Her lips parted slightly in a daze, a wet shine to them, her eyes glassy and unfocused, the pupils overshadowing the ring of emerald. There was a flush to her cream skin, a rosy shade across her cheeks, across her chest, the lines of her body relaxed in the face of the honey coursing through her. Part of him sympathized with her, understanding all too well what it felt like, especially for one so young, so inexperienced. Though, the other part relished in it, in being the sole cause of her pleasure. He knew, of course, that she could still hear him, was still cognizant, but oh how it chipped away at his withering control to see her this way in his grip. ‘Focus,’ his conscience reprimanded him, actively fighting off the effects, trying to keep his goal in sight, the aim that needed to be achieved. 

“Did you truly think that it was normal for me to be able to control you this way? That it was only due to the strength of my magic? All of these things, Harri, are within my control because you’re _my_ _horcrux_ ,” he finally explained, releasing her from his hold, from their bond.

Almost immediately, it was easier to breathe, the air not as suffocating without having to deal with the distraction of the syruped feelings, of the thrum between them.

Harri’s head fell back against the mirror as the hand left her hair, the auburn crown resting against the splintered surface as she tried to regain her wits, to refocus herself. The aftereffects of what he had just done, the light he had summoned, was still circulating in her veins, pulsating in time with her heartbeat, making her feel lost, adrift. Her breaths came in shallow bursts as she stared squarely into the overhead light, her body twitching minutely as it tried to process through the queue of both being tortured and suffering that damningly sweet fulfillment. She noted, dimly, that Voldemort was still supporting her, that he had yet to move away, and, judging from the sound of his own hitched breathing, he was just as susceptible, as affected, as she was. 

‘Serves him right,’ she thought bitterly, her skin feeling stretched too tight, too thin, as she became hyper-aware of how close he was to her. She could feel the heat of his body, could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her own, and she refused to lift her eyes away from the ceiling, too afraid of what she would find awaiting her. The words, the warnings, played in her mind, turning themselves over and over again as panic started to overshadow the bliss. ‘He’s right,’ she thought in a frenzy as the euphoric bright flares began to fizzle out, ‘None of this is normal.’ 

A beat of silence followed where he collected himself, a low shaky exhale as he straightened his spine, looking down at her before removing himself from their entangled legs, “I don’t want to spend an eternity doing this with you, Harri. The sooner you accept everything, the better, and easier, life will be.”

The redheaded witch slumped against the mirror, finally lifting her head to stare evenly at him, an embittered look flickering in the shadows of her eyes. However, he was already turned away, heading towards the door and only sparing a glance over his shoulder as he was about to turn the handle.

“I am assigning a guard to watch over you, day and night, until I can trust you not to behave foolishly when you are alone,” he stated, his tone final and leaving little room for argument. 

Voldemort drank in his horcrux still propped up against the mirror, her green eyes swirling brightly with indignation, with animosity, her skin retaining the agreeable flush to it. His jaw snapped shut resolutely, refusing to rise to the bait of the defiance she was determined to still show him. Forcefully, the door closed, locking with a resounding click, before he could find the urge to do anything more and cause even further damage. She truly did know how to test the limits of his patience, to prod at its boundaries, to overexert it. And as he apparated away to seek refuge, to put space between them, a vague notion materialised that she truly did look as though she belonged in a museum, a living sculpture created from magic.

His own greatest masterpiece-- “The Girl Who Lived”. 


	43. An Extended Olive Branch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone-- apologies for not posting yesterday! We are having some terrible storms that have knocked out our power so I had to finish this chapter on my phone and am uploading it from it as well **so please excuse any mistakes you may find or formatting errors! I tried to catch them all but some may have slipped past me**
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who has been commenting and giving a kudos to this story! 💕I so appreciate every single one of you and you have no idea how blessed I feel to have such active readers! 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy!

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* * *

Harri felt sick, nauseous, as though there were too many voices, too many emotions, crammed inside of her. Entirely overfilled, overflowing, her conscious stretched thinly across too many planes of thoughts, ready to snap and implode in the wake of the slightest breeze. And yet, oddly enough in spite of the feelings of being overstuffed, there was a hollowness, a gaping maw, in the very center of her chest. With every inhale and exhale, with every shaking breath, the frosty tendrils seeping from it spread through her, down to her limbs, robbing her of heat and turning her fingers numb. ‘He’s right, you know,’ a singular strain amongst the endless chattering had spoken above the cacophony of white noise. Silence ensued in her mind, a vacuum of space, of stillness.

‘None of this is normal. You’re an abomination against nature’s most sacred laws--no living thing should exist to house another’s soul.’ And though there was no cruelty, no bite, to the thought, it still stung nonetheless. After all, he had made sure it would when he painted the horrors of her friends’ hypothetical betrayals, their willingness to turn on her, to destroy her. An auburn head had finally lifted from the hidden space between her knees, the coolness of the fractured mirror at her back serving as an indication of where she was, of what had just occurred. Sharp pieces, digging into her skin but not quite puncturing, made her grimace. Harri arched her spine, lifting her back away to lessen the contact, to ease away from the physical reminder of their anger.

Green eyes reluctantly cracked open to study the white powder amidst the folds of her skirt, the remnants of a bust that had been obliterated in the face of the Dark Lord’s anger. It clung to the wool, insistently refusing to part, tarnishing the dark grey material with its invasive dust. The room had become quiet, disturbingly so, and whereas she had once found it beautiful, it now seemed more akin to an inhospitable space. The sculptures’ eyes appeared colder now, as though she were the one to cause the death of their brother and were openly accusing her of such. Absentmindedly, numb fingers plucked at the felt, trying to remove the lingering traces of the finely milled marble from the pleats and wishing for magic to spirit it all away. 

Voldemort had said she would be getting a guard, that much she remembered through the haze, through that damning pull of light at her navel. But he hadn’t said who it would be nor when to expect them to arrive. Her emerald gaze lifted mutinously towards the door, having heard the resolute sound of a lock turning when he had left, the message quite clear that this was to be her own personal waiting room, her new purgatory. As it currently stood, Harri didn’t possess even the faintest clue of how much time had passed since he had stormed off, how long she was supposed to remain shut away in here, what she was supposed to do-

As though the universe had been privy to her thoughts, had decided to finally humour her, to indulge her, the door handle turned. Standing in the doorway, whistling to himself in the face of the damage of the showroom, was a rather handsome young man with straw blond hair and rich chocolate coloured eyes. 

Her head fell back against the mirror with a soft thud, groaning inwardly at who, she guessed, had been assigned to her, “Merlin, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Barty took a step into the room, and then another, eyes flitting about the gallery as a cheeky smile slid the corners of his mouth upwards. The Death Eater spun in a wide circle as he took in the cracked mirrored ceiling in awe, the splintered and half-shattered walls, the remnants of a destroyed podium and marble sculpture coating the ground.

“Oh, Narcissa is not going to be pleased,” he commented dryly, a mischievously knowing gaze landing on the girl curled on the floor, a look of utter distaste pinching her features. 

“Blame your Lord,” she mumbled to herself, quite embittered, as she eyed the hand offered before her in mistrust, “So I’m guessing you’re my babysitter?”

A roguish smile spread across his face as she eventually accepted his assistance, lifting her off the ground and bowing in over-exaggeration, “Barty Crouch, at your beck and call, My Lady.”

Harri studied him as he swept into his dramatised show of reverence, groaning at the wry smirk, the gleam of his eyes. She wanted to scream in frustration, to declare this wasn’t happening, that she refused to accept it. Part of her wondered if Voldemort had even chosen the man for this exact purpose--that he knew it would get under her skin, that she would be disinclined to trust the wizard after he had spent almost two years in a disguise, lying to her, deceiving her. And as she swept determinedly from the room, the Death Eater practically nipping at her ankles, she tried to ignore the delayed shiver, the disconcerting feeling of dread, at the fact that he had referred to her as ‘My Lady’.

* * *

* * *

Severus Snape had come to the conclusion, as he busied himself with sorting through the ledgers and the endless written requests refilling mandatory classroom supplies, that operating a school was far more work than he could have ever expected. And as he squinted at the slanted scrawl of the previous headmaster, eyes straining to figure out their meaning, a brief question crossed his mind regarding how intact Dumbledore’s sanity actually was. After all, who, in their right mind, would willingly inflict such a torture upon themselves? It was enough to make his head pound, a sharp unrelenting throb, to darken his mood and almost make him want to reach for a drink. With a heavy sigh, one that betrayed his irritation, the man threw the scrolls back down onto the grand desk, wiry fingers reaching up to massage his temples. Though it may have appeared to be a great reward, a responsibility afforded to him as a testament to his capabilities, a part of him wondered if this was his Lord’s punishment in camouflage. A way to seek retribution for all of those years playing both sides, never fully committing to one or the other, of toeing the grey areas in both camps. It certainly would seem to be in character for his mercurial mood-- a double-edged sword that cut his patience down to the quick. 

The office was silent and bare, mostly cleared of Dumbledore’s belongings by this point, a clean space to start anew in. Though, out of all of the things from the old office, he had retained the hourglass sculpture in the corner. A massive and refined curved glass that was suspended magically in its frame, tilting over on itself every hour with a soft chime. It was this sound, the twinkling of a bell, that caught his attention as weary eyes trained on the turner resetting itself, the fine grains of obsidian sand slowly trickling through the funneled opening. Severus supposed he had kept it as it was relaxing to watch, a much needed distraction that provided momentary respite from the chaos. And, as he obsessively watched the steady stream, he found the tension bleeding out of his body, his mind settling. Of course, that peace could only last so long-- a tentative and flighty thing in his life. One second it had been still, calm, quiet, and then the next, there was a sharp sting radiating through his left arm, a deafening crack as the newly-constructed wards bent around their creator, bowing to his will. 

Snape’s head snapped upwards, scrambling to get to his feet but relaxing in confusion as he was motioned to remain seated. Coal eyes, narrowing a fraction after getting over the momentary shock, observed the Dark Lord pacing about the length of the office, his movements as fluid as a snake waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Apprehension overtook the headmaster as he probed at his mental shields, ensuring they were firmly slipped into place. Though there wasn’t much to hide at this point, it had been a reflex, an instinct, to have them up in the Dark Lord’s presence, one that made him feel safe. The relative peace had been destroyed, disturbed, tattered remains he could practically see drifting in front of him, only to be replaced with the palpable irritability rolling off of the wizard before him.

“My Lord,” he greeted in respect, tone lilting towards the end in an unspoken question.

Normally, he would be the one that was summoned, would be the one called to suffer the man’s whims and wishes. Very rarely, however, was it ever the opposite-- to have Voldemort come to him, to seek him out on purpose. And, truth be told, it filled every inch of his body with dread at what it might entail.

Crimson eyes slid over to the potions master, the residual distemper from his encounter with his horcrux still humming brightly within his system. While it had quieted down from its deafening roar, reduced to a susurrating whisper in the back of his mind, the urge to enact violence, to make her forcefully submit, still had its claws wrapped tightly around his self-control. A scoff, one that he didn’t mean to do, escaped his chest as he crossed over to the rather empty bookshelves, fingers interlaced behind his back as he tried to find his center. Upon fleeing the gallery, leaving behind a girl with too green eyes and flushed skin, an idea crossed his mind to pick Severus’s brain, to hear his thoughts on her, to try to understand her infuriating nature. And, more importantly, how to get her to accept and surrender herself to him.

“I confess myself needing your advice, Severus,” he finally broke the tension in the study, idly reading the gold-leafed spines of the titles before him, “You have spent years around the girl, have you not? So, tell me, has she always been this defiant? This vexing?”

Snape blinked once, attempting to understand if this was a poorly conceived dream, if he had fallen asleep at his desk amidst his reading, or if one of the darkest wizards in their history was truly in his office and asking about the ill-behaviour of an ex-student of his. However, even he had a lack of faith in his imagination’s ability to conjure up such a thing. And wasn’t that disturbing? 

“I have found that Harri Potter has always been quite ungovernable, My Lord,” he was prompted into a reply when those hellish eyes had glanced past his turned shoulder, a look in them that relayed his thinning patience

Frustration, sharp and acidic, welled up in him at the lack of a satisfying answer. Voldemort whirled around, long strides crossing the room before landing his hands, forcefully, upon the desk. He leaned forward, his lips pulled back into a sneer as a disapproving callousness shone in his gaze.

“Really, Severus? 6 years of watching her and that is all you have to report? ‘ _Ungovernable_ ’?” 

A pit formed in his stomach at the sudden snap in his temper, at the outward threats of intimidation and biting tone that usually only appeared when he was thoroughly incensed. For the briefest of a second, his attention wandered over to the hourglass and he debated about whisking it away for its own safety, to attempt to save it from his Lord’s wrath, from its inevitable destruction should his fury rise any further. And then it bounced back to the seething man before him, wincing at the harshness colouring his words, at the sight of his bared teeth. ‘Merlin, what did the girl do now?’ No small part of him felt concerned fear, not entirely for his own wellbeing but for hers, over what recklessness she had done to incur his wrath. Every bit of his consciousness berated her, chastised her, for not heeding his warnings to endear herself to him, to comply and avoid inciting his wrath.

And then the strangest notion occurred to him, puzzling out as to why the Dark Lord was asking him for his opinion, for his assessment of the girl. ‘Perhaps, this is my chance to sway him,’ an idle thought, a dangerous one that, once formulated, refused to leave him alone. If the girl would not listen, then maybe he could implore his Lord to see reason, to have some compassion towards her. This could be his chance to save her, to spare her from further pain and torment. It could finally be part of his lifelong mission for atonement. 

“She is resistant to authority, My Lord, much like her reckless father was. If pushed too hard in one direction, she will most certainly rebel in the other. From what I have seen, she admires her freedom and the autonomy to lay down her own terms, more so than other teenagers,” he explained carefully, trying to be selective in his words as a calculating glow flickered in that scarlet gaze.

Snape knew it was a risk he was taking, that his judgments could reap the opposite effect he was intending for, but he needed to try nonetheless.

“Praise is also something she tends to respond rather well to. It was how Dumbledore had managed to draw her to his side, I believe,” onyx eyes tracked the movement of drawn up shoulders relaxing, relieved at seeing the sneer fade into a frown, “I had witnessed it multiple times in fact. He would always compliment her, commend her for her efforts, before requesting something of her. And she had always acquiesced in the end.”

Voldemort straightened his spine, his exasperation fading in the wake of new information, of little particulars about her that he could spin to his advantage. It had appeared that he guessed correctly in coming to the headmaster, that Severus knew her weaknesses quite intimately. His brows drew together in contemplation as long fingers drummed against the wood, filing away the details for later.

“Most importantly, however, is that she admires her comrades--her friends, her family,” Snape continued, taking it as a hopeful sign that the air in the room was becoming more breathable, less heavy and hostile. True, he felt as though he were betraying her slightly by revealing such fundamental truths about her character to her greatest enemy. But, in the light of it potentially making the Dark Lord more lenient towards her, he figured the girl would have to come to understand his intentions. 

“Family,” he echoed distantly, mind mulling over the word, its implications. The rhythmic beat of his fingers on the desk abruptly ceased. 

“Loyalty runs deep in her and, if you can win it, it seems to be rather unshakeable. For instance, she was all but ready to turn against Sirius Black to the extent of even pointing her wand towards him. However, upon finding out he was innocent and her supposed godfather, her opinions quickly changed about him,” his mouth pressed into a grim line at the memory of the Shrieking Shack-- of being rendered unconscious, caught off guard and blasted off his feet by her overpowered spell. His shoulders and head had smarted for days afterwards, his ego bruised by that little transgression that, only quite recently, had he forgiven her for. 

A smile, cunning and sharp, pulled the corners of his mouth upwards, a feeling of triumph swelling in his chest. ‘So, she wants family,’ a sly thought, a dawning of light at the end of the tunnel. Voldemort took a step back, too many ideas, too many plans, already formulating in his mind’s eye, being put into motion and playing out as several hypothetical scenarios.

“You’ve been quite insightful, Severus,” he muttered out softly, eyes glazing over in an unfocused manner, so consumed by an inward monologue to even care about the man before him any longer. The office abruptly bled from view as he sought refuge to scheme, to reset the board and his pieces.

A shaky exhale left the headmaster as the Dark Lord disapparated, a sharp pop and a blur of black before he was gone. It was at that moment he realised that his fingers were shaking, vibrating in the face of what he had done, at how he had attempted, and hopefully succeeded, in manipulating his Lord into mercy. And Severus found himself desperately wishing, praying, that, for once, no ill consequences would arise from his actions.

* * *

* * *

“So you’re really going to follow me everywhere?” she questioned after a beat of too long silence, the small heels about her feet clicking against the marble tile as they carried her to the once place she knew to go-- her glorious cage.

She didn’t feel like returning to the informal dining room after what had happened, didn’t feel like witnessing Draco’s concern or Narcissa’s worry. And she most certainly wanted to avoid accidentally bumping into a certain man with red eyes, her tolerance as frayed as her nerve endings at the moment. The tension had yet to leave her shoulders, her throat still feeling inflamed, her wrists beginning to show the first signs of bruising. Everywhere there was dust, marble and glass particles alike, in her hair, on her clothes, and she just wanted it gone. To strip off his stupid insignia from her throat, the weight of it increasing with every step, to remove the wretched clothes she had been forced to wear. The underwear he had personally picked out had begun to chaff incessantly at her skin, an unpleasant reminder that she wasn’t even allotted undergarments not approved by himself first. A bath sounded glorious, the purifying kind that scorched her skin, the kind that could burn every trace of him away. 

“Everywhere you go, I will also,” he muttered from behind her shoulder, his strides purposefully shortened to stay in her shadow, “But it could be fun, couldn’t it? A little bonding time outside of the classroom.”

From her periphery, she saw two men lingering down the corridor, heads bowed as they carried their conversation in whispered tones. However, when they realised who was watching them, their heads lifted, their gazes glittering in apprehension, in assessment, a cold detachness in them that made her squirm. Then, in harmony, they dipped into a slight bow, their eyes sliding from her and to the ground. Harri hurried past the pair, unnerved, disturbed, by the odd display and not wanting to dwell on it. 

The redheaded witch swept into the stern study, the fireplace empty and void of life, the hush of it indicating its owner was absent. Unrelenting rigidness left her shoulders, thankful for the small mercy as she marched to the carved door wedged between the two bookshelves and stepping into the cold room. Much like the office, there was no fire, the winter chill seeping in through the tall panes of glass and blowing frigid air through the window she had left open. ‘Hedwig’s still gone,’ she noted, glancing over at the empty cage impassively. When the footsteps didn’t follow her into the overly-done bedroom, with its finery of cream and gold, she spared a questioning glance over her shoulder. 

“Can’t come in, remember? Not unless you invite me,” the man explained, leaning against the doorframe and taking in the grandiose finery beyond the threshold, “Sweet Merlin, our Lord has really outdone himself, hasn’t he?”

Her jaw clenched, a twitch jumping through her brow as fingers reached up to her throat, undoing the velvet ribbon and tossing it down forcefully onto the low coffee table. It bounced with a clatter before rolling off and under the lounge, out of sight and abandoned. ‘Good, it can stay there for all I care.’ At least there was one grace afforded to her-- the illusion of privacy in her chambers, one that she knew wasn’t truly there.

“He’s not my Lord,” she finally bit out venomously, appalled at the notion, at his gall for even suggesting such a thing. 

The silence that had followed her answer, an indication that he didn’t fully believe her, that she was so blatantly lying, made her want to gnash her teeth, to destroy something, to break things and find a physical outlet for her frustration. A vindictive thought crossed her mind to shred the dresses, toss them out the window, to refuse to wear anything but her old ‘rags’, as he had put it. But it quickly evaporated at the reaction, his retaliation, to such a childish display, one that he would, undoubtedly, take out on her or those residing in the manor. Plus, knowing how sadistic he was, he would probably be more than content to let her wander around in a bathrobe until she begged for the clothes back. 

The imagined scenario caused a bitter taste to dance across her tongue as she whirled around on the spot, her tone flat and relaying her annoyance, “I’m taking a bath.”

A dip of his head, that wry smile never once leaving his upturned lips, the knowing glint still in his stare, “And I’ll be here.”

She watched in disbelief as he settled into one of the armchairs in the study, a book floating out from a shelf as he made himself comfortable. Apparently, guarding her night and day truly meant every single hour, minute, and second. Harri slammed the door shut behind her, kicking off her shoes in vehement exasperation. 

* * *

* * *

The bath, as it turned out, was as glorious and wonderful of an idea as she had initially thought. And while she may have made it a touch too hot, the steam curling off of the water’s surface fogging the mirrors, the heat scalding her skin and making her hiss in suffering, she didn’t fully mind it. It provided the relief she needed, to calm the spasms still convulsing in her muscles, the lingering headache from her curse mark slowly ebbing away under the steam’s influence. A breathy sigh escaped her as she tilted her head back, the usually vibrant strands floating about her chest darkening to a shade of burgundy. It felt wonderful to be in the searing water, to experience a pain she had complete control over. A sensation entirely of her own making, one that reminded her she was still alive, that she still had a mastery over her body, was the one to decide its fate and could exert her dominance over the flesh. If she focused hard enough, she could vividly picture the lapping water burning away his touch, his persisting handprints, setting aflame the vile piece of him inside of her. It was comforting, a welcomed distraction. 

“Why did you not call for me, dear child?” a woman with ivory coloured hair and a champagne dress suddenly appeared amongst the swirls of mist, disturbing the moment of peace, “I could have drawn the bath for you.”

Harri reared back in surprise, the water splashing dangerously over the sides as her arms flew to her chest, her legs drawing upwards in an attempt to retain some modesty, some privacy. Though it was a needless thought, one of stupidity, it unnerved her to be so naked in front of a woman so refined and elegant as Narcissa, to show her the too sharp curves, the lingering scars.

She tried to shield her bare body from the pale gaze watching her in dismay, in disapproval, “Mrs. Malfoy-!”

A click of her tongue and she was kneeling down by the side of the clawfoot tub, a delicately arched brow rising at the rather physical reaction, at the mortification so clear in that heart-shaped face, “Oh, come now, Harri. We are both women, there is nothing to be shy about.”

Brilliantly painted lips tugged into a frown at the temperature of the water, at how the pale alabaster skin was reddening to a punishing glow. Then she saw the slowly darkening circles about her wrists, the purple discolorations already starting to bloom. She had been warned of the art gallery being reduced to a war zone, thinking the worst when Draco, waned and troubled, had alerted her to the fact that the Dark Lord had whisked the girl away in her absence. In truth, that had been the main part of her reason, of her haste, to find her, to seek her out and to affirm for herself whether or not the girl was whole and unscathed. But, it appeared, once again, that she did not escape without a mark or two in the wake of their tempestuous encounter. An embitteredness unfurled in her heart as elegant hands, gentle and calming, reached for one of the witch’s hands, a thumb running in a soothing manner over the fine bones of its back. 

“What happened, child,” Narcissa questioned, crystalline eyes not lifting the bruising marks, impressions of fingers left behind so distinct, “Why was he so angered?”

Harri stared down at the fingers absentmindedly massaging her hand, a jarring realisation at how kind, how tender, the action was. This woman held nothing but benevolence, nothing but concern and compassion towards her. And a part of herself wondered that, when Narcissa would come to know what she had done, when she knew what sins Harri was committing by simply breathing, would any of it change? Would that open heart shutter close? Renounce and forsake her? After all, Voldemort was rather certain that her friends, people she had known for years, would do so without hesitation-- why would a woman who had only been in her life for a few days be any different? And what if, by just talking to the witch, by harbouring these feelings and getting so affected by her, was enough to put a target on her back? To inspire the Dark Lord’s ire against the blonde, to use her as a playing card against her when convenient? She remembered all too well his warnings about the room, about knowing what would happen within its walls, that nothing was safe nor sacred. The redhead retracted her hand, cradling it back to her chest, gaze flickering downwards to the ripples in the water. 

“It’s nothing,” she muttered finally, resolutely, a tone that communicated that she didn’t want to say any more on the matter and that begged for the Malfoy matron to leave it be.

The frown on those scarlet lips deepened, tugging down further at the girl’s withdrawal, at her deniance and distance. But then again, she supposed it couldn’t be helped-- it wasn’t as though she knew her intimately enough to be privy to the things that she might consider as private matters. For now, it could only be her hope, her wish, that the girl would come to trust her enough to, one day, share her burdens, her mind. It was difficult to try to conceal the disappointment, the hurt, as she rose on stiff knees, reaching for a bathrobe on the vanity and holding it out.

“Come, before you scald your skin any further.”

Narcissa turned her head to give the girl some privacy as she stepped out of the water, firmly wrapping the plush fabric around the shivering body. And judging by the violence marring her skin, by the lack of a Dark Lord in the manor, and by the shattered mirrors, she considered that all the witch wanted was to remain in her apartments, to collect herself, and to have some time alone. 

The older woman began to gently rub the strands of her hair dry with a towel, watching them part from their damp clumping under her administrations, before uttering out in a quiet tone, “I’ll have an elf bring dinner to your rooms. Just for tonight.”

There was an instantaneous reaction. Her shoulders went taut, alarm bright in the wide-eyed gaze, a heavy swallow as the column of her throat bobbed. The pureblood glanced up, taken back by the abrupt fear in the girl, at her discomfort. 

“N-no,” Harri fumbled for the correct words, tongue heavy and heart hammering.

Guilt began to gnaw at her insides, a hungry and unrelenting force, the kind that made one’s stomach turn to stone and for the heart to stop beating. Images of a decapitated body, of trusting purple eyes, of blood running down bony shoulders, of fluttering excited ears. It was a warring juxtaposition in her mind as her memory recalled the two versions of the kind creature-- dead and alive. Whispers floated in the back of her mind that she had been the one to kill Zivvy in the end, could easily damn another to the same fate, that she was, by proxy, a murderer. And she just knew that she couldn’t take seeing another one appear before her, not when they looked all so painfully similar to one another.

“Please, no elves,” she finally begged, fingers darting out to clutch at the older witch’s thin arms, brows drawn together in desperation. 

A look of confusion on Narcissa’s face before she gave the slowest nod of her head, mildly startled by the protests, “Of course, dear one. No house elves.”

* * *

* * *

The women had found themselves in the entertainment parlour of the chambers, Narcissa hovering at her shoulder and watching her critically from the corner of her eye to ensure she ate. Harri distantly wondered when the last time had been that she had eaten a proper meal, her appetite waned and nonexistent since arriving at Malfoy Manor. Even now, everything tasted of ash, of dust, crumbling in her mouth tastelessly and difficult to swallow. A shame, she figured, as the lentil stew before her, the baguette and assorted greens on the side, were probably all exquisite. Spoon to mouth to swallow. Spoon, mouth, swallow. Rinse and repeat.

“Draco is leaving to go back to school soon,” the pureblood finally commented after a few prolonged seconds, content when the girl was eating of her own admission and not having to be prompted into doing so. 

“Oh,” she muttered, brows lowering in reflection. If Draco was already leaving, that must mean that the winter holidays were coming to an end and that meant-- well, what exactly did it mean for her?

“The Monday after New Years. I will miss him, of course, I always do when he goes back. But it is for the best, nonetheless. Children all have to grow up at some point,” she supplied, trying to make conversation and humming tunelessly as she glanced about the dimming bedroom. The fire in the mantle had come to life, the shadows it cast stretched long across the walls, its crackling heat chasing off the evening winter’s chill. 

Harri set the spoon down, unable to stomach the soup any further. She knew that time had been lost on her, slipping away, but she didn’t realise that it had been this long already. That Monday would mark 16 days, a full two weeks, almost half a month since she had been taken. And the thought of having been here this long, of having that much time missing, made her heart drop. The flames, an array of bright warmth, danced before her and she found herself mesmerized by them, an appreciated diversion that seemed to lessen the nausea. 

“Did he say anything?” the redheaded girl finally ventured, finding her voice amongst the dulling throb of her panic. The logical side of her already knew the answer, could hazard an educated guess, but a foolish sliver of her still held out hope, “About me? Going back to Hogwarts?”

Narcissa allowed her pale gaze to drift over to the witch, taking in the profile turned firmly towards the mantle, at the orange glow about her face. The lowered line of her brows, the tightness in her mouth, the delicately pointed chin held in tension. It would appear that she already knew but was wishing for a verbal confirmation. And, as much as she hated to be the bearer of bad news, to further the ever-mounting disappointment and despair in Harri’s life, she felt that honesty was the best policy in this situation.

“I’m afraid,” a hand drifted to land on her knee, a slight apologetic squeeze as those painted lips thinned into a grim line, “You will not be returning.”

And though she had guessed it, had already foreseen the truth, had known it in her bones, Harri still couldn’t help the pang of disappointment from coursing through her.

* * *

* * *

New Year's Eve had arrived and, with it, a knocking on the door. Harri had been busy letting Hedwig preen her fingers, running a gentle finger over the downy silk of her feathers in an attempt to settle them, to sort them back into place, tenderly cooing to her companion about how lovely she was. Green eyes snapped sharply towards the threshold, still in her night robe as she had been throughout the entirety of the afternoon. It had been days since she had left the bedroom, not feeling too thrilled at the fact that someone would be following her everywhere, and she was more than content to remain here until Voldemort called off the ridiculous idea. And, after all, if she never left her chambers then the Death Eater would have nothing to report back.

“The party is starting, My Lady,” the voice of the follower in question, her guard, drifted through the heavy oak, the words slightly muffled by the wood. 

A wince at the term ‘My Lady’-- he had taken to referring to her in that way and it always made her feel sick, put her on edge, made her want to grind her teeth until only the nubs of the roots remained. Harri frowned and turned towards Hedwig, the amber gaze of the owl fixing her in a reproachful stare as though the bird had already guessed where her thoughts were going. But she would be damned if he thought she would go to a party, pretend to have a good time and be forced to dance with him again for hours. They hadn’t seen each other since the encounter in the exhibition room, both mercifully absent from the other’s life, and Harri was more than content to let it stay that way. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she begged her friend, the chirp of its beak relaying its message-- you can’t stay in your room forever.

‘Try me,’ she thought bitterly, lifting herself off the lounge to open the window. 

“I’m not going,” she called over her shoulder, not deeming it fit to even open the door.

Her gaze followed as the snowy owl flapped its wingspan, a flurry of motion, before it dove gracefully out the window and into the night sky. An ache in her heart made itself known as she watched the glowing pinpoint of its body fade away, a yearning to escape with her, to be back in the sky and feel the wind lashing about her face.

Harri finally glanced towards the door at the silence that followed, of a lack of reply, and victory rushed through her. Apparently, her babysitter didn’t have the ability to force her to do anything and it was a power trip she was more than willing to ride out. 

And so she had greeted the New Year curled up in front of the fire, wiggling her toes in front of the dying flames, as the ruckus from downstairs alerted her to the closing end of December.

* * *

* * *

He had wandered into the study, the pleasant thrum of alcohol in his system a much-needed distraction and a sensation that he had greeted as an old friend. When Barty had alerted him that his little horcrux would not be attending, it almost made him see red. How tempting it had been to drag her out of that cursed bedroom, to throw her in the middle of his hounds and command them to turn on her, to tear into her flesh and to teach her to come to heel when he instructed her to. But no, instead he allowed her the little defiance, a mercy on his end, an olive branch he was attempting to extend. And, if he was truthful, as much as he would have loved seeing her at his side, her undoubtedly sour mood would have only led to flared tempers and, most likely, regrettable actions on his end. He was so desperately trying to heed Snape’s assessment of her, of her need for autonomy and, in the grand scheme of things, missing one soiree was a singular drop in a much larger puddle. Voldemort could only hope, however, she saw the compromise as a gift-- after all, he was not known for them and did not like to get into the habit. Though, truthfully, spending the past few hours in the company of beautiful women and high-quality champagne did certainly soothe the sting of her blatant rejection.

Now, however, standing in the shadows of the study and dismissing Barty, his ever so loyal, from his guarding spot, the irritation was back in full force. Crimson eyes trained themselves obsessively on the door, the earlier bliss diminishing at an alarming rate at the offending sight of it. How long was she going to avoid him, to play out her little tantrum, to continue her act of rebellion? And all for what? Because he told her the truth? The one she needed to hear? Because he had been attempting to teach her a lesson? 

Plush lips pulled back into a sneer, fangs bared, as he glared at the affronting carved oak that was, figuratively and literally, shutting him out. While he could have easily opened it up, forced his presence onto her, make her writhe in pain for her defiance, he found himself not doing so. A tick jumped through his jaw, clenching tightly, as he stood for a moment before the ornate silver handle, manifesting her to come out, to open willingly up to him. Of course, she didn’t. 

It was the biggest mystifying conundrum of his lately-- he wanted her, Merlin only knew how much, to be near him, to smile at him, fawn over him, worship him. But, somehow, it all seemed meaningless if it wasn’t of her own accord, of her own admission. She was the grand prize he coveted, the one on the top shelf that seemed to evade him, remaining always out of reach. Yes, Harri Potter was unique, special, someone that could never be substituted for, though try as he may. 

The hand hovering about the handle retracted, heeding the voice that warned him not to give in, to listen to Severus, to grant her the illusion of freedom for now. A growl of frustration, metal dancing over his tongue, clawed nails scraping his chest raw. Voldemort turned on his heels, his stride carrying him away from the inches of wood separating her from himself, seeking refuge in his own sanctuary. One sparing glance over his shoulder, a hopeful notion that she might still come out, before slipping into his chambers, the door behind him closing on its own. 


	44. His Summons (pt. 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! My apologies again for the late chapter-- some personal issues came up yesterday that I had to take care of.
> 
> I ended up having to split this chapter up again because it, somehow, was almost 20 pages in length. So the second half to this one will be up as soon as I finish editing it! **I'm sorry, I know how much you all hate cliffhangers! Please don't hate me**
> 
> Also, just a quick shout to you guys because I love taking every chance I get to shower you all with my affection and gratitude! You guys are seriously amazing and such gems for commenting, bookmarking, and giving kudos to this story! Seriously, every day I log on and see another comment or bookmark and my heart just soars 💕 So just thank you for your love-- you guys truly do motivate me to write!
> 
> **also, ps to anyone else who writes their own fics. This browser called ZenWriter-- seriously the best discovery ever. I swear my productivity has increased tenfold using it 😂 I highly suggest everyone to check it out if you want to change it up a bit!**

* * *

* * *

The Monday had arrived all too quickly for her liking and she woke up in a sullen mood, a bitterness in her heart and disappointment heavy in her soul. Draco would be leaving later in the morning, joining the influx of returning students as they escaped to the stone halls of Hogwarts in a bid for prolonged freedom until the summer could begin. He would get to pass his free time in idle chatter or gossip, waltz about Hogsmeade on the weekends, partake in bouts of friendly house rivalry, and have his biggest worries center around upcoming exams or deadlines. He would get to enjoy all of the privileges and independence that was afforded with being out on his own, a self-determination that accompanied the distance from the watchful eyes of his parents. It would be a joyous time that would mark his youth— one that he was, undoubtedly looking forward to. He would be regaining a sense of normalcy in an otherwise unstable life. And, had it been like any other year, Harri might have been inclined to feel the same excitement and anticipation. But, as it currently stood, she couldn’t summon the energy— Hogwarts, it seemed, would remain out of her reach indeterminately.

A restless sigh, a heavy sound that bemoaned the entire situation, escaped from the cavity of her chest. The motion of rising and falling, her ribs expanding then collapsing as she lay amongst the nest of pillows, gaze aimed in betrayal towards the cream coloured ceiling. She couldn’t help but wonder if Hermione would be returning. If Ron and the twins and his sister would as well, flashes of bright orange scattered amongst the Gryffindor table. Would they find themselves in the common room in front of a warming fire, laughing at stupid jokes and nursing mugs of hot chocolate with far too many marshmallows? Would they be cheering in the stands during quidditch matches, bundled up in their house colours to ward off the early morning chill? Or going to parties on the weekend, passing the night away with firewhiskey as their companion only to regret it the second the sun rose? And even though the rational side to her knew that they would feel her absence, and more likely than not miss the Express today, it still made her eyes sting and a hollow ache to flourish. The thought of everyone moving on without her, the vivid imagery that had been conjured as a cruel joke, was enough to make her feel sick. Would they all eventually forget her, carry on with their daily lives while she was stuck in this gilded prison, locked away from the world?

 _‘But wouldn’t that be for the best?’_ a small voice had whispered. And, as much as she hated to admit it, there was some truth in the sentiment. If they left ‘The Girl Who Lived’ in the past, a ghost to only exist in the furthest recesses of their memories, they could avoid needlessly risking their lives for her— of dying with her name on their lips.

A sharp rap, quickly followed by another, and Harri lifted her head from the ostentatious array of cushions, auburn hair spilling over the ivory sheets. It would appear that Narcissa had finally arrived, ready to dress her for the day a tad earlier than usual. Just yesterday, Harri had pleaded to be there to send Draco off, begging the woman to allow her that small mercy— to oblige her the most pitiful wish. Exhaustion dug its claws into her unrelentingly as she slumped back down against the pillows, the effort to crane her neck a tiring one. The girl hadn’t slept for most of the night, already painfully conscious when the sun rose, and she was starting to feel the effects of the deprivation. Wearily, green eyes slid over to the sheer curtains, impassively blinking when she found the glimpses of the winter sky to be in an equally depressed mood— a never-ending sea of grey.

* * *

* * *

Harri considered that she would never get used to the ordeal of dressing, of how much effort it was in the mornings to become ‘presentable’ by pureblood standards. Today alone had taken almost two hours to properly wash, dress, and style herself. And part of her just knew that, without Narcissa providing her expertise, it would have taken her twice as long to thoroughly meet the woman’s high expectations. Under normal circumstances, the girl would have just sat back and relaxed under the nimble fingers combing through her scalp, the gentle lull of conversation, the comforting scent of the matriarch’s perfume. But today she had had no patience for it. And it was as though the woman had been able to sense her mood, or perhaps even that she had felt the same, as the coordinated ensemble was rather simple. The redheaded witch had been outfitted in a simple black cotton dress, a sharp dip of a v in the collar and the lace-trimmed hem grazing her ankles. The sleeves were sheer and puffed, ending tightly at her wrists with silver buttons. There was a theme, Harri had been quick to note, in the overall cut of the gowns she had been forced to wear— always tight in the bodice and nipped in the waist but flaring out around the hips. If it was true that the Dark Lord had personally picked them out, then it was becoming slightly obvious where his obsessions lied regarding the female figure.

Even her hair had suffered from the impatience of the morning, the normally intricate style lacking altogether. The fiery strands had been kept down, a cascading curtain falling loosely to her low back with only a few pieces twisted artfully away from her heart-shaped face. The insignia, much to her dismay, had been fished out from under the couch and rested proudly in the hollow of her throat on a length of velvet ribbon.

After a rushed few hours, the women had finally found themselves in the dove grey room of the floo parlour— an awkward affair of prolonged silence. The entrance was usually locked, a precaution she guessed that was only recently put into place upon her arrival, and Harri couldn’t help herself from letting her eyes bounce around the room, mind drifting. It was plainer than the other areas of Malfoy Manor— and though she had referred to it as such, it was still luxurious. Especially so when compared to the one at the Burrow. There was a singular fireplace, grandiose in its size, a crystal cut bowl on its mantle holding the black powder. Tall windows lined the walls, floor to ceiling, framed by drapes of lilac silk— the excess of fabric was tied back with navy cords. Weak winter sunlight flooded the room, casting a sullen air about the wizards gathered in it.

In a way, Harri supposed that she should have felt some shame for intruding on the Malfoy family’s intimate farewells— that she was encroaching on the final moments between a son and his parents. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so as it was completely fascinating to watch their dynamics. The cold affront of Lucius— only giving his son a quick handshake and a firm dip of his head with a warning to behave. The warmth she had come to expect from Narcissa— a tender glow as she rubbed her thumbs over her son’s high cheekbones, a mistiness in her eyes as she tenderly referred to him as her ‘little dragon’. The mortification on Draco’s face as he glanced helplessly over to Harri, stepping abruptly out of his mother’s hold and begging her to not embarrass him. It all painted an interesting portrait, one that made something dark writhe around her heart— to coil and squeeze, to further grow that gaping pit in her stomach.

And Harri couldn’t help but wonder that, perhaps, she might have had this. A parent’s stern message to keep out of trouble, a mother’s tender touch and a lovingly bequeathed nickname— an unwillingness to let her go back to school after the holidays. Their tears over her departure and a reluctance to let her pull away, soft words relaying how much they loved her. She had certainly fantasized enough about it, a lovely dream that always made reality seem a touch more bitter when she finally awoke. ‘Freakish little girls don’t have parents’. Her aunt’s voice played on an unwelcomed loop in the back of her mind, a painful leftover from a childhood of darkness and unkind hands, a constant reminder of what she could never have.

A tightness flourished in her smile and what was genuine before now seemed forced. A facade, a mask. Suddenly, it was her turn to say goodbye and she rushed forward, not caring about the parents hovering in the background nor the calculating judgment in her guard’s eyes. It was as though her body had acted of its own accord, seeking out the comfort the Slytherin always provided, the gentleness of his presence that could be relied on to chase away the encroaching clouds. Her arms went up around his shoulders, pulling his thin frame down to hers in a hug, a heavy realisation overcoming her that he was truly leaving. One of the few allies she had in the manor, a remnant of her old life, a friend to make her laugh and whose calming aura she would surely miss. Warmth around her middle, an imperceptible tightening, and he was returning the embrace— apparently, Draco was feeling the impending separation as well.

The smell of sandalwood and orange peel, a decidedly boyish scent most suited to him, wafted from slicked-back hair.

She smiled slightly, her lips barely moving but the whisper just loud enough for him to hear, “If you see them, let them know I’m okay and miss them.”

His response came in the form of a slight squeeze at her waist, a nonverbal communication that he would try. And then she was stepping away and releasing him from her hold. It was a bittersweet thing, a goodbye that Harri hadn’t wanted to come. ‘He’ll be back,’ a logical side justified, chastising her for overreacting, for being so dramatic. But, without Draco, who else did she have here besides his mother? Who else could she count on?

“Don’t get into trouble. Or, at the very least, don’t get caught. Merlin only knows that you’re terrible at sneaking out,” she tried for a lighthearted jest, the smile not quite reaching her eyes as it fell flat.

Distantly, she could register the watchful stares of the adults, an ever-present warning for neither of them to overstep their boundaries.

“Of course, Potter. And hey, at least with you gone, Slytherin might actually stand a chance of winning a few matches,” Draco tried for their usual banter, his hands shoved into his school trousers as he took in the redheaded girl before him.

It sounded fake to his ears, shallow sentiments that meant nothing. And he couldn’t help but fear for her, wonder if she would be able to thrive in the den of the Death Eaters. That, when he returned in a few months’ time, what would he find? The same girl, with defiant emerald eyes and a smile that could blind the room? Or a shell, broken down and spirit defiled, forced to crumble under the unrelenting pressure and whims of the Dark Lord? Truthfully, the very notion, the concept, the uncertainty frightened him.

The pureblood tried to return the wry smile, a dry chuckle in response to her disbelieving scoff at his jabs. It was all an attempt to hide his worry, not wanting to unsettle her or turn the affair into an even more gloomy occasion than it already was. Draco parted his mouth wanting to speak, to say something else, but his jaw snapped closed with an audible click at the sharp look of admonition in his father’s gaze.

Lucius finally stepped forward, having had enough of their friendliness, glancing critically at the proximity of his son to the girl. A sense of unease, of dread, thrived in him seeing their closeness, their attachment and camaraderie. How many times before had he warned Draco to distance himself from her? To end their congenial terms and back off before their Lord took notice? And yet, the boy was willing to defy him on this matter, to not heed his cautions— to continue to remain stubborn and foolish. A pale brow twitched in annoyance as his hand shot out, an unrelenting authourity that made Draco flinch under its weight.

“Come, Draco, or you will miss the train,” Lucius roughly shepherded in his son into the mantle, a cold stare fixed on the dumbstruck girl as his free hand grasped for a healthy dose of floo powder.

Harri could only return the small wave the blond boy had given, mildly taken back by his father’s abrupt and disdainful interference, before they were consumed by green flames. Draco was freed, allowed to spread his wings, and roam without a collar heavy about his neck. ‘At least one of us gets to be.’ And she tried her best to fight down the jealousy, the wave of envy crashing through her as he disappeared in a flash of light.

In the wake of their disappearance, a hush settled over the empty space. The mother hovering near her sighed deeply in an uncommon show of distress— it relayed how much she was already missing her son, the heartbreak at having been separated from him once again. And Harri thought to comfort her, to tell her it would be fine. That she felt the same, that it was only a few months of waiting. A small pale hand reached out for the older witch’s only to withdraw abruptly at a sudden cough, a deafening reminder that her actions were still being watched and scrutinized.

She looked blankly over her shoulder to see Barty leaning off of the door’s frame, tilting his head towards the hall as his tone bordered on almost the apologetic, “He’s summoning you, My Lady.”

* * *

* * *

The guard had led her into a dining room, the same one, she belatedly realised, that her unveiling to the Death Eaters had taken place in. The wooden table, long and polished to a dark sheen, the ornately carved throne at its head, the impossibly grand fireplace made from obsidian, the dim lighting of the imposing space. It did very little to quell her nerves, recalling what had occurred the last time she had been in this very room, and she couldn’t help but dread whatever it was that he had planned for her now. Narcissa was faithfully at her heel, flanking her in, and Harri craned her neck uneasily towards the older woman. The elegant hand that landed on her shoulder, the reassuring squeeze it gave, hadn't told her much as to what to expect—only that the witch would be by her side through it all. Suddenly, it was difficult to swallow, her frayed nerves constricting her throat.

The room was, mercifully but peculiarly, empty when the trio had stepped through its austere doors, her bewilderment only increasing at the turn of events. ‘So he summons me and he’s not even here,’ a resentful thought crossed her mind, a scornful scoff escaping her at his audacity. Of course, she shouldn’t have been too surprised-- he did appear to take some sadistic enjoyment in dragging things out and making everything all the more dramatic. Those refined fingers curled deeper into the softness of her shoulder, a show of nervousness, as they steered her disinclined feet towards the carved chair on the right side at the table’s head. It was the same one she had occupied during the last meeting she had attended, the one in which she was put on display and forced to sign away her rights. High backed, scrolls in the dark wood for the armrests, images of snakes curling about its legs and unfurling roses scattered amongst the intricate filigree design. She would be lying if the sight of it didn’t make her feel uncomfortable, a distressing notion of what its placement had meant, of who it was reserved for—someone important to the Dark Lord, someone who was above the common ranks of his followers, someone held in no small amount of regard.

Harri was pushed down into it, perturbed, as Narcissa’s lips thinned into a grim line, a tightness in the corners of her crystalline eyes. And as she retreated to a seat further away, the girl took the chance to observe how plain the other spots around the table were-- her own a less grandiose version of the throne, one made intentionally lesser but still fit for a ruler. ‘Almost perfect for a queen,’ something traitorous whispered, an unbidden notion that refused to leave her in peace, one that made her stomach lurch in a disagreeable way. And try as she did to fight it off, to stamp it down, to cease that line of thinking, she just couldn’t. Recollections of their photo in the Prophet, how she had been dressed to match him, of the bowed heads of the Death Eaters in the halls, Barty’s insistence on referring to her as ‘My Lady’ despite her pleas for him to stop it. The hunger alight in crimson eyes, the not-quite subtle hints that he wanted something more from her, the intense desire for her cooperation, his declarations about them having all of eternity together. It made her want to retch as things began to settle into place with alarming clarity.

And then the door clicked open with a resounding sharpness, a dark-haired witch with hooded eyes and a mass of wild curls stepping past the threshold. Her appearance was a much-needed distraction to pull Harri out from her swirling thoughts, to make her forget and suppress the appalling betrayal of her conscious, the treasonous idea. As per usual, the dress the older woman was outfitted in clung too tightly to her frame, too revealing, too immodest for polite company. Behind her were the twins, ‘Rabastan,’ her mind supplied as she recognised the one that she had stopped from being tortured into insanity. They were trailing faithfully in her tall shadow as the severe doors closed with a muffled thud, the air around the heavy wood parting with a soft whisper.

‘Bellatrix,’ a swirl of vehemence, of venom, of viciousness. Green eyes, nearly aglow in their distaste, watched as she crossed the expanse of the room with an exaggerated sway of her hips, a smirk pulling wide on scarlet lips. There was a new scar, she noticed in a delayed reaction, skirting around on the contours of her face and Harri, though loathe to admit it, found that, somehow, the woman made it look almost beautiful. Zivvy’s words were replayed in a ghostly vignette, the ones declaring that Bellatrix had been at Grimmauld Place that day, at how she had come equipped with a vengeance and a bloodthirsty attitude. And Harri would have to be an idiot not to realise where she had gotten that silver mark from, the one splitting her brow and ending at her pulse point. Not to mention, someone had to have recognised the murdered elf, to be the one to point out which family she had served. The feeling of liquid heat, of her blood turning molten, coursed through her veins, a no small part of her wanting to leap up, to yell, to unrelentingly demand to know how the Death Eater had gotten the line across her pale skin, who the vile witch had attacked to deserve such a thing.

“Harrikins,” Bellatrix crooned, teeth gleaming and far too sharp behind a simpering mouth.

There was the slightest flicker of animosity, of jealousy, in those coal eyes upon seeing where the girl had been seated, where she was placed in accordance with the table’s ranking. But it quickly bled away into something more dangerous, a twisted glee, an excitement, a chance for some fun to liven up her otherwise boring day, “I was hoping I would run into you again.”

Harri gritted her teeth in the face of the saccharine voice, at the overfamiliarity hidden in the falsely sweet nickname, at the belittling tone, “Funny. I was hoping for quite the opposite.”

Narcissa abruptly rose from her seat to flit worriedly over to the woman, an elegant hand placed as a subtle warning on her forearm, silver eyes pleading. She understood her sister’s need for entertainment, that it usually was at the expense of others, that she always pushed it too far too quickly. But it truly would be madness, suicidal almost, to attempt such a thing with the girl, with their Lord’s charge— especially after he had declared Harri Potter was not to be touched. And even if the witch had occasionally warmed the Dark Lord’s bed, Narcissa was fairly certain that their familiarity wouldn’t spare her from his wrath should he find out.

“Bella,” she tried to greet with warmth, voice strained and nervous as she attempted to distract the black-haired woman, to make her forget about the redhead on the throne, “How have you been? I have not seen you in ages, it seems. Really, you must come by for tea more often and stop torturing your sister by withholding your company.”

Bellatrix’s eyes drifted over to her younger sister, briefly flickering downwards to the hand hovering on her arm. ‘Ever so cautious,’ she mused, her mirth bleeding outwards, a fondness erupting at the sight of her concern. Clawed fingers, nails painted black and wickedly pointed, lifted to pat lovingly on the cheek of the blonde woman.

“Cissy! It has, hasn’t it? I’ve been better, especially now that this is healed,” she trilled, jerking her head towards the pureblood to bring attention to the new scar across her face, a dry bout of laughter tearing from her throat.

“But you know our cousin, such a temper,” she added slyly, onyx gaze sliding over to the girl, a vicious smirk on her face as she ignored the cautioning squeeze of her sister’s fingers, “Sirius truly doesn’t hold back. No matter though, we had our fun. I imagine he’s far worse off than a little scar considering the number I did on him.”

Harri’s fingers twitched on instinct, reaching for a wand that she didn’t have at the goading of the witch. The heat began to burn brighter in her chest, the conniving voice and taunting smile a dry kindling to feed the anger, to coax the swell of her wrath. The world around her bled away as she processed through the words, as she took in their hidden meaning. Bellatrix had all but confessed to torturing her not-quite-godfather, of laying a foul hand on him, of causing him pain. It made her see red, the embers sparking into twisting flames, threatening to consume, to destroy.

Though she may not be able to act out against Voldemort, to cause him suffering, to divine vengeance, she sure as hell felt capable enough when it came to one of his followers. _‘Hurt her, make her pay,’_ that rich voice chanted from somewhere inside of her, the residual soul of the Dark Lord encouraging her, pushing her towards the edge. It sang for her to earn her pound of flesh, to draw blood, to taste it between her teeth and revel in its glory. _‘She touched one of your own and has the audacity to gloat about it.’_ Something tart bloomed brightly across her tongue, metallic in nature, and she was only distantly aware that her gums were beginning to ache, to throb, tender to the touch. The pain in them only served to further stoke her fury, to inherently make her even more uncentered, unhinged. One minute, she had been seated, and then the next, her feet were moving of their own admission, carrying her in a direct path to the woman standing a few feet away.

“What did you do?!” Harri demanded, her breaths shallow and body vibrating as images of Sirius in agony, of Sirius bleeding, of Sirius screaming out for mercy assaulted her mind. The grey-eyed man who always held a smile, who joked around with her, who referred to her as his ‘Prongslet’, who always tried to see the best in people had been tortured— and she wanted revenge, karmic justice, an eye for an eye.

A reedy laugh, strung too high and grating, escaped Bellatrix as her husband rose from his seat in uncertainty, not quite stepping in but watching in thinly-veiled interest, in mild agitation. Roughly shrugging off Narcissa’s increasing grip, the older woman took a step forward and then another until the tips of her shoes bumped against the girl’s. ‘What a small little thing,’ she thought in idle assessment, far too delighted at the delicate stature of the redhead, at how she trembled in her rage, at how those green eyes danced like a curse. There was certainly some appeal to her, that much Bella could see, her boldness, her spine, something to admire. And it was so amusing to see how riled she was over something as insignificant as a blood traitor, to see how quickly Harri had lost her temper without even fully admitting to what she had done. That cheshire smile widened, a brief note made to later ask her Lord if she could have some fun with the young witch-- after all, there were so many things she could teach her, could impart onto her, could instill into her.

“Are you sure you want to know? After all, such details aren’t made for children,” she clicked her tongue in mocking sympathy, giggling at the way those eyes were blazing, at how that jaw seemed to clench even further, at the trembling fists forming at her side. ‘I think I may have found my new favorite toy,’ a deranged train of thought, one in which she couldn’t resist the urge to clap her hands together in excitement.

“I wouldn’t want you to have nightmares, after all, Harrikins. Such nasty things shouldn’t be put in a pretty little head like yours,” a hand strayed to pat lovingly on the top of the auburn crown, retracting it with a peal of laughter when the witch had lashed out, the girl’s hands firmly shoving at the center of her chest.

Bellatrix stumbled back a step, urged on forwards and feeding off the sharpening ire, the drastic responses, completely disregarding her sister’s hands about her shoulders and their attempts to pull her away.

“Temper, temper!” Bella chastised in a fake show of disapproval, tongue clicking as onyx eyes flickered over to where the mantle had suddenly sprung to life.

It appeared that the teenager was still prone to bursts of accidental magic in the face of her anger and that lack of control only inspired further giddiness--she was a powerhouse, a catalyst for talent that could flourish under the right guidance. There was something so beautiful, so chaotic, in the notion of corrupting Dumbledore’s golden child, of ruining her in the eyes of the Light, of damning and twisting the precious last remnant of her dear cousin’s long-dead friends. How poetic would it be to dye something so pure in the colours of the Dark, to stain her until that innocence existed only as a whisper of the past. And the taste of it on her tongue, the headiness, the inebriating shadows swirling in its traces— it was glorious, familiar. It took her a second to work around the overwhelming sense of deja vu, her mind whirling as she tried to place where she had felt such magic before, had experienced it already countless times. Then it hit her— it was her beloved Lord’s.

Harri tried to control her temper, truly she did. She had tried to distract herself by counting down from 20, had tried through the pain of her nails biting half-moons into the softness of her palms, through imagining her happy place at the Burrow. But it was so difficult in the wake of Bellatrix’s words, her taunts, the squeals of laughter, the mocking tones and hands. And so when the fireplace suddenly erupted into wild flames, when the lights began to flicker overhead, she had decided to just go along with it. The horcrux in her, that alluring little voice, seemed to enjoy it, revel in it, savour it, and truthfully? She just felt so spiteful, so angry, at being treated like a child, at being kept in the dark about what appalling things the woman had done to Sirius, Harri’s only family. All she wanted was revenge for the man, to make the Death Eater pay for daring to lay a single finger on his head, for betraying him despite being his blood.

“Call me ‘Harrikins’ one more time, Bellatrix. I dare you,” a sudden gust of wind, as sharp and uncontrollable as her emotions, suddenly tore through the room, her body vibrating in the power of it.

It felt electrifying, a thrill and shock to her system, her control lost as something unfurled in her, a shadowed mist dancing behind her lids. Everything felt _alive_ , too much yet too little at the same time, a feeling that whispered that it wasn’t quite enough. _‘Good, Harri, good. Listen to your instincts, feel them.’_ It was the truth when she understood that she couldn’t be sated, not like this. Not until she bled the woman out, not until justice was reaped, until Sirius, Zivvy, her friends, could be avenged. And she debated, was more than certain at this point, that her body, her skin, held a charge, could light up the room as her nerves sparked, a shot of something volatile in her. It was delightful to see Bellatrix staggering backwards, unable to withstand the onslaught of the gale, of the sheer force. Distantly, she registered that the chairs had clattered to the ground, the panes of glass rattling threateningly in their frames, the drapes whipping around dangerously in a bid to escape their confinements to the ceiling, the oxygen becoming thin as she stole it away.

And then as quickly as it manifested, the howling died down, an abrupt sense of loss, of fatigue, of weariness. Harri panted slightly, eyes glazed, her fingertips tingling with pinpricks at a lack of sensation, numbing and turning cold. _‘Careful. Your core is still too unstable to handle such magic without a wand. You’ll end up exhausting yourself at this rate,’_ the baritone whisper, seductive and sweet, warned her, cautioned her. It was as though the flame in her had dipped down too closely to the wax, running out of a wick and extinguishing itself in the process. A shaking hand rose to rest over her heart, trying to slow its punishing tempo, to calm it, as she eyed the shocked witch with curls that seemed even wilder now.

It took Bellatrix a second to overcome the initial surprise, to regain her footing after being forced away from the girl by the unexpected assault. A beat of silence and then coal eyes narrowed in contemplation, in critical assessment of the teenager before her, the delight ebbing away into something more serious. Just who was Harri Potter to the Dark Lord to have a magic signature so close to his own? To hold such power, to be able to conjure up bouts of violence without even having a wand? Something in her was strung taut, an appraising review of the witch, apprehension, a ravenous desire to find her answer. There was the strangest need, almost overwhelming, to dissect The Girl Who Lived, to tear apart her body, to find whatever piece of her was so similar to her Lord’s and cradle it in her hands. To scream how dare she try to be privy to any part of him, to mock him by trying to replicate something so great, so grand, that it was beyond the comprehension of mortals. To accuse that someone like her was unworthy of having such potential, that it was wasted on her, that nature’s favour was entirely misplaced. To find the column of her core, the glowing traces, and consume it, to sink her clawed nails into it and take it as her own.

“Give me your wand,” Harri gritted out after regaining her calm, her breath finally evening out from its laboured gasping. The command was directed towards Barty hovering at her shoulder, her guard all too ready to put himself between the two women, to intervene at a second’s notice.

“You know I can’t, My Lady,” the Death Eater responded after a beat of a second, stepping forward to shield the petite girl from the obsessive hunger, from the violence of Bellatrix Lestrange.

He spared one glance over at the girl before refocusing his attention on the older witch, the maniacal, and crazed look in those onyx eyes all the indication he needed to know that she had felt it too. Those who were used to dark magic, who regularly practiced it, who bathed in its glory, were finely attuned to its nuances, to the underlying currents that lent a unique flavour to each user. And while he had only glimpses of it before while teaching her, the barest flickers that he had chalked up to his imagination, feeling her magic in its unbridled glory was damning. Whatever Harri Potter meant for their Lord, their strange connection, he hadn’t deemed it appropriate, or justified, for his Death Eaters to know-- and it wasn’t in their place to try to figure it out either. They were his followers, not privy to, nor needing, a reason for his action, or inaction, and trying to toe that line was a dangerously reckless thing to do.

Brown eyes locked with the witch’s hooded ones, the slightest shake of his head the only warning she would receive not to say, or do, anything else. And though he held some respect for Bellatrix, her capabilities and skills nothing to scoff at— and as much as he would never want to cross wands with her— none of it mattered in the face of following his Lord’s orders.

A moment weighty tension, palpable in its astringency dancing across tongues, a beat of stillness where no one dared to move, to voice aloud their thoughts. It was a game of seeing who would make the first move— either backing down, acquiescing in surrender, or letting tempered chaos ensue. And then the grand doors swung open of their own accord, six heads snapping in unison towards the interruption, towards the sound that had disturbed the hush. Horror, mutually felt by all, swept through the room upon seeing the Dark Lord hovering in the threshold, those hellish eyes narrowed in displeasure.


	45. His Summons (pt 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all of my lovely and precious readers! I ended up receiving so many comments on the last chapter, including from users I haven't seen before in the comment threads, so I just wanted to say thank you!! 💕 Seriously guys, comments are the best gifts you could all possibly give me! Whenever I log on and see them, they really do make my heart sing and it's getting to interact with you all in the threads that makes it worth writing a fic! 💕 So just an overall thank you--you all have my undying affection and love!
> 
> As promised, here's the second half! It's a bit long-- I ended up having some things I wanted to add in while I was editing lol.
> 
> You guys are beautiful-- please enjoy!

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* * *

Flashes of lights, the lingering smell of powder curling out in wisps from the cameras, reporters jostling forward to get their exclusives. And though he was outwardly smiling, acting congenial and amicable, allowing the press to capture the best side of himself, Voldemort was quickly tiring of it all. His patience was stretching, wearing thin, the endless buzzing and white noise bringing about a vexing headache. And he couldn’t quite help himself from letting his attention slide over to the clock, counting down the minutes and seconds until he returned to the manor, would finally see her again after days of separation. It had been difficult to grant her autonomy, distance, every inch of him demanding to know why she even needed it, that she should get used to him already—every fiber singing for him to go to her, force his presence onto her whether she wanted it or not, to make her understand that she could never be rid of him. A tight smile at another burst of flash.

“Your Majesty, tell us, how is your new ward faring? I noticed she was not at the New Year’s Eve soiree you hosted last weekend,” a voice floated from the mass of bodies before him, a nameless specter demanding an impossible answer.

Recollections of his destroyed bedroom, an art gallery reduced to finely milled dust, her arching away from a shattered mirror in agony, screaming in suffering until her throat turned raw, the flushed skin in the wake of ecstasy, eyes blown wide with a feeling that she couldn’t fully process. His fingers twitched imperceptibly, teeth sharp and voice purposefully misleading in its sympathy, “Harri is still adjusting, as you can imagine. It is a big change, after all, considering her past trauma inflicted by a neglectful guardian.”

The sharp chime of a clock, the signal the hour had ended, and he was dipping his head with false regret, “My apologies but that is all I have time for today. Please direct any further questions you may have to Mr. Nott and I assure you that he will relay them to me.” 

Voldemort stepped away from the podium with a final wave, smile slipping once he was out of the keen stares of the reporters. ‘Finally,’ anticipation filled him, a hunger, unconstrained and unbridled, as feet carried him of their own accord. He had alerted Barty of his wish that she would already be in the meeting room when he had arrived, a present just waiting for him, one that he didn’t feel like having to track down himself. But then the strangest thing occurred, a glimpse of emotion that gave him pause. Her anger, bright spots in his consciousness, a feral kind that he was starting to recognise that always reaped destruction in its birth. Exasperation filled him at the thought, briefly wondering what she was rebelling against now, what had set her off when this was supposed to be a pleasant affair—one in which he afforded her a gift, bestowed onto her a charity, a mercy, a kindness.

His office bled from view as he clutched at the red string, the traces of their connection, the living filament of their bond, an instinct carrying him to her.

* * *

* * *

The Dark Lord was given pause outside of the grand doors, momentarily overwhelmed by the magic seeping through the wood. It was one he was getting to know quite intimately, as complex and intoxicating as a finely-aged wine coating his tongue, subtle nuances, raw in its refinement. A heady and alluring siren’s call, one that wrapped tightly around his consciousness in a loving embrace, a shock to his system that begged to draw closer to the source— it was hers. A magic so similar to his own but with just enough variation to make it unique, a mystery he had yet to understand, to puzzle out. And as quickly as he felt it, could feel it vibrate in his very bones, in his marrow, it bled away. The beast in his chest paced, crying out to feel it again, to demand to know why it had disappeared, had left it unsated. His eyes narrowed into slits of displeasure, both from being cut off but also from the fact that something, or someone, had to coax such violence in the first place. He waved the doors open with a nonchalant hand. And they parted readily for him, the Red Sea bowing to something greater, granting him access as he took one step inside.

The scene that greeted him was one that induced an array of reactions, his face schooled into impassivity. There was a shock in seeing the room overturned, the chairs laying about the ground and the drapes ripped from their rods, the flames lashing out of the metal grate and the lights strobing overhead. Then there was awe, her inherent abilities never ceasing to surprise him that she could be the source of such destruction. Concern in watching her stumble, her exhaustion palpable to him, her chest rapidly rising and falling in its exertion, a slight sheen on her brow. But, most of all, it was anger, discontentment, irritation, displeasure. ‘Foolish girl,’ his first thought upon seeing her burn herself out so quickly, as reckless as ever in trying to perform magic without a wand as a conductor while her core was still underdeveloped.

And then he saw the confrontational stance of his horcrux and Bellatrix, the helplessly hovering forms of the other Death Eaters surrounding the pair. There was a look in his most loyal’s coal eyes, one that he was quite familiar with— an obsession and a thirst for blood. He would have to be dimwitted not to guess as to what had occurred between the two witches in his absence, blind not to see their outward hostility. The scarlet gaze briefly flitted over each one of his followers as their heads snapped towards him. A delayed reaction followed, a moment before they recovered their wits and sinking into a bow, their mute horror as clear as day. The Dark Lord took long strides forward, the heels of his Oxford shoes clicking deafeningly on the marble tile and disturbing the quiet of the room. Without even pausing, the elder wand snapped outwards in a wide arc, the parlour resetting itself before returning to its holster under his black robe. Around him, the chairs were corrected, the fire submitting and receding, the curtains reattaching— but he was barely aware of any of it as his eyes were latched firmly onto the redhead standing amidst it all.

The defiant girl refused to even budge, to acknowledge him past the blazing wrath still dancing in her gaze, those curse green eyes of hers almost glowing. And try as she did to hide it behind her bravado, he could sense her exhaustion, her fatigue, the way she was swaying on unsteady feet. And while he was, begrudgingly impressed with her, plans already being made to teach her to control wandless magic in the future, he couldn’t quite help the sneer from flickering across his face. ‘Truly ‘ungovernable’, ‘reckless’,’ he thought viciously, finding there to be truth in Snape’s words regarding her character. The girl was going to kill herself at this rate, burn herself up in the untamed usage of her core, in trying to improperly utilize it. Yet she didn’t even seem to recognise the dangers in her actions, the effects it was having on her body. 

Harri couldn’t even remember the last time she had laid eyes on him, had last been in his presence, her luck in avoiding him finally having run out. As she watched him in silence, his dissatisfaction so vividly painted on his face, she couldn’t help but remember their last conversation and how that had gone. The torture, the harsh words, the bliss-- all of it a whirlwind, an influx of sensations that gave her whiplash by just recalling it. The ache in her gums, in her teeth, only seemed to increase the more she focused on the memory, the ground underneath her suddenly unsteady. Some part of her realised that she probably overdid it, having manipulated an element without a wand, and she truly wanted nothing more than to sit down as waves of nausea overcame her. But she refused to look as though she were backing down from him, her reeling body be damned. Stubbornly, Harri lifted her chin, leveling him with a fixed look that dared him to point out that she hadn’t greeted him, hadn’t bent the knee, to start this meeting off with the fight she so desired.

Voldemort paused in front of Harri, looming and towering, his shoes meeting hers as he let his eyes roam over her, taking in the shaking shoulders, the ragged breathing, how she was tilting to one side so precariously. ‘Calm yourself. Do not be angry that she was using her magic,’ a rational side justified, a sharp inhale and exhale leaving him as he tried to heed that small voice. Of course, she hadn’t any idea of how dangerous it was to inappropriately cast wandless spells—how could she? No, instead he should redirect his anger towards those in the room that had let her continue, who did nothing to stop it, who were fully aware of what effects it had on an underaged witch. 

Determining himself to be calmed down enough to face her without losing his control, the Dark Lord quirked a delicately arched brow in a silent question at her combative manner, at her need to apparently act so hostile when all he had done was walk into the room. His expression was one that asked if she truly wanted to be confrontational, if arguing and quarreling with him was something she could take at the moment considering the state she put herself in. A scowl came as her response, her arms crossing definitely over her chest. And though it did mildly encourage his ire, he found it somewhat endearing, a fondness that she still seemed so opposed to him, was still the spitting stray that was attempting to bite the hand that feeds it. 

“Barty. Is this your idea of guarding and watching over her? Standing by as she does whatever she pleases? As she endangers herself to the point of exhaustion?” he questioned finally, tone cold in his address to the man still kneeling before him. However, before the Death Eater could even speak, could get the chance to explain himself, Voldemort raised a hand to silence him. 

“And Bellatrix-- did we forget my warning? The one in which I had specifically declared Harri Potter to be off-limits? That any affront to her would be one to me as well?” he further demanded, eyes never leaving those of the horcrux before him, her resentment so evident in the tightness of her drawn features. 

Much to his pleasure, he noticed she was starting to lean closer towards him, apparently subconsciously, instinctively, seeking out strength from the original source of her magic. A slight tug on the borders of his consciousness, one that he realised as her, a pleading pull that was asking for the light of their connection, for the comfort it lended. The Dark Lord’s eyes darted across her face, wondering if she was even aware of what she was doing, what she was asking for. Was it being executed with intent or was it the soul shard in her acting of its own accord? Judging by her stubbornly turned head, the auburn hair creating a curtain that hid her profile from him, the clenched jaw and the closed-off posture, he was guessing it was the latter— still, intentional or not on her part, it was a significant enough development. After all, it indicated that the connection between them was becoming established enough that the horcrux knew when to turn to him, to actively seek him out. A smirk bloomed on his plush mouth at the very thought. 

Then there was a whimper behind him, a simpering sound of despair, that caused the elation to come crashing down. Voldemort had altogether ignored the begging sounds, the horrified keen of Bellatrix, a part of him already guessing that, the second he gave her permission to speak, she would be crying out for his forgiveness, to deny her part in disobeying him. ‘Good. Let her know that I’m displeased,’ a savage thought, cruel in nature, crossed his mind. The witch had overstepped her boundaries, despite his warnings regarding Harri, and, frankly, a little humility would do her some good. 

And though he knew that, more likely than not, his horcrux had probably been the one to instigate the conflict, to rile up Bellatrix with her reactions, to spark the confrontation in the first place, he knew he would never dare to punish her in the usual sense-- especially so not in front of his followers. Pushing his irritation, his disfavour and vexation through to the marks born on their left arms, contentment unfurled in him upon hearing their drawn inward gasps of pain, at the practically audible termors racking their shoulders. And, for good measure, so they wouldn’t forget anytime soon, potentially disobey future orders, he encouraged the tattoos to crack open, bleed and weep dark ink, to scorch and blister. Higher pitched groans, acutely sharp cries of suffering filled the dining room. 

The Dark Lord craned his neck over his shoulder to take Bellatrix grasping at her arm, clutching it desperately in a vain effort to stop the invisible flames from licking at her, to lessen the hot oil dancing across broken skin. Blackened blood was dripping steadily from the design, the snake writhing against her paleness, a sight that filled him with a bestial gratification, a sadistic fulfillment. ‘Appropriate reparations,’ he thought idly, sliding his gaze to the kneeling form of Barty at the redheaded witch’s feet.

“I want both of you to stay behind afterwards,” satisfied enough with their choked out acknowledgments of his request, their words strained in the light of their pain. And then those crimson pinpoints snapped back to his horcrux, exasperation causing them to spark. 

_“And you,”_ he hissed out in their shared tongue, choosing to do so for privacy, for the sake of keeping the image of untouchability about her, to keep her reprimand a matter between themselves, _“You need to calm down.”_

Harri gaped at him, taking an unbalanced step back in offense, in shock, that he had the nerve to tell her to be the one to calm down. After all, who was it that always lost his temper? Had tossed her about like a rag doll when he saw fit? The one to always get physical and destroy their surroundings? Granted, she was guilty of that as well but, considering their track record, Voldemort was certainly more of the repeat offender. Even now, he had punished his followers, enacting such cruelty upon them, causing them to suffer under his wrath. Only distantly did she register the soft groans of torment, not even bothering to look over at the prostrating wizards scattered around them. And the smallest part of her, a dark side she would deny ever existing to her personality, felt vindictive joy that Bellatrix was in agony after what she had done.

 _“Don’t tell me to calm down,”_ she retorted in response, arms crossed over her chest and glaring mutinously at him. Her eyes drifted over to the ornate chair, the world about her becoming just a tad bit blurry, her only thought being how desperately she longed to collapse in it.

 _“Harri, you are acting like a child and I need you to stop,”_ his frustration was mounting, rising in a wave at her lack of compliance.

He had been so lenient over the past few days, giving her space, not forcing her to come to the party, and was about to give her a gift, bestow onto her something priceless. And yet, she still dared to act this way towards him, to argue and protest, to run herself ragged in doing so.

 _“I’m not a child-”_ she scoffed, the words dying on her tongue, ceasing to exist in her throat when a hand shot out to grip at the back of her neck.

The unrelenting press of fingers digging into the softness, into her pulse point, the heavy heat of it as it ran along the topmost knob of her spine. And there it was, the light, the pull, the syrup, the bliss that melted away the anger, replaced all negativity she felt. The honey that seemed to give her strength, to make the world stop swaying and tilting for a second. The buoyancy, a floating sensation, the warmth in her chest-- 

It ended as quickly as it had begun, her eyes wide in a dazed shock as tried to comprehend how he could have ended it so quickly, could have taken that pleasure away from her without even a second of remorse. The nausea was back, something in her whispering that it wasn’t enough, not yet— it more than a simple desire, it was a need. Harri blinked owlishly up at him, at his pleased smirk, at the knowing glint in those scarlet eyes, a look that was all too smug and triumphant. It was one that just screamed ‘I can control you, make you wish for more’. He dropped his hand from her neck as she glared up at him, the urge to kick him suddenly seeming to be quite tempting. It would appear that he had no remorse in utilizing whatever he could against her and how that made her want to scream, to march from the parlour, to slam the bedroom door in his face and never come back out. Suddenly, the hand was curled around hers, not so much as gently interlacing their fingers but rather a constricting pressure, one that nearly crushed the fine bones and made them ache.

Then he was leading her over to the chair at the throne’s side, pulling it out with one hand and forcing her to sit with the other, a bruising force upon her shoulder. ‘Merlin,’ she thought in bitterness at how much strength rested in those very fingers, their delicate elegance entirely deceiving—and how she hated herself for being mildly impressed by it. And though she would never say thank you, would be loathed to admit it, it truly did feel wonderful to finally sit down, to be off legs that felt like jelly, the bones in them brittle and threatening to snap.

Green eyes tracked his path as he took the throne, fingers steepled as the scattered Death Eaters finally rose from the floor and taking their seats only when he gave the slightest nod of his head to do so. And how at home he looked in the position of a king, of a leader, his magic settling over the room in a weighty blanket, his dominance secured in the face of the subservient wizards seated below them. Harri glanced down the table to take in their waned faces, the weeping, much to her relief, finally halting on Barty’s arm. He sent her a small half-smile, a cocky little thing that didn’t quite hide the pain in his eyes, as he seated himself down three rows from her. Bellatrix, with her hands covered in ink as black as her heart, was staring venomously at the redhead— a look that she gladly returned tenfold.

Suddenly, a vial appeared in front of her, a soft pop into existence. She looked over at Voldemort in confusion, her brow lifting as she noticed the pleasant orange liquid, the fizziness making it jump in the glass bottle. It was a potion she was quite familiar with, having developed a dependency on it after spending her nights in the company of firewhiskey laced punch— a pepper-up potion. 

“Drink it,” he commanded, leaning back in the throne to observe her, crimson eyes tracking obsessively as she raised the vial to her lips after a moment of hesitation. A man possessed, he followed the movement of her throat, the bob of it, a desire to reach out and hold the pale column in his grasp, to feel it constrict in his hands, to trace his crest resting in its hollow.

* * *

* * *

Abruptly, the mantle lit up in green flame and Harri looked over, in alarm, at the unexpected sight. She had been the only one, apparently, to be caught off guard as the others seemed nonchalant, entirely unaffected. The faintest traces of amusement flickered to life in their bond, and Harri glared at him, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the fireplace. Desperately, she tried to distract herself from kicking him under the table by pinching the softness of her upper arms, the pain welcomed and sufficient enough to consume her attention.

Stepping forth from the dazzling display were two goblins, hooked-nosed and with teardrops of onyx for eyes, beady and unnerving to look at. They bowed to the man on the throne, the ever so slightest dip of their heads, and, much to her surprise, Voldemort returned the gesture. The entire exchange unsettled her more than she would like to admit, startled by his respect towards them, his modest show deference. ‘Since when does he bow his head?’ Knowing who he was, the little regard he held for those below him, how quick he was to lord over his underlings— Harri decided that humility wasn’t his strongest virtue nor did it suit him. And, for some strange reason, it made her feel uncomfortable, disturbed, guarded, and wary towards the pair that had stepped forth from the flames, something about them earning what the Dark Lord did not freely give.

“Your Majesty, on behalf of Gringotts let me extend my warmest expressions of gratitude for choosing us for your needs. I am Alnott, head of Wizarding Relations, and this is Fargor, certified in notaries and official documents,” the slightly taller of the two had stepped forward, his hair tufts of white on a balding head and face more lined than his partner’s. 

Harri considered them in morbid curiosity. Her knowledge of, and past interactions, with goblins had been limited solely to the bank. Truthfully, she had always found them confrontational, curt, as though dealing with wizards was a chore that they deigned to be a necessity and not a pleasure. And, of course, only a fool would try to deny that they weren’t in complete control of their economy. Goblins were known to mint their currency, as well as most metal objects that wizards took enjoyment in, and they could very easily tank their entire society if they so wished. But the respect the pair was showing the Dark Lord threw her for a loop, had upset her previous impressions of the race. Were they all like this if you had enough money to flaunt? Or was the man by her side just that powerful, frightening, that even goblins, beings who were neutral in their world’s politics, felt it wise to show him some version of reverence? 

Either way, she decided that they disturbed her. Their teeth were too pointed, too sharp, their eyes glinting in a cunning way, an air about them that they were always scheming. And she thought back to her charms professor, dear and kind Flitwick, how he was nothing like the two standing at Lord Voldemort’s side. ‘Thank Merlin for that small mercy.’

“And this is the girl in question, I am assuming?”

Harri was brought back to the present and out of her thoughts as the one with a gold pocket watch, Fargor, leered at her. She supposed he was attempting to smile, to be amicable, but the mouth of sharpened teeth made it unfriendly, inhospitable, foreboding. 

Green eyes drifted over helplessly to Voldemort, inwardly cursing herself for the fact that she had looked towards him for an answer, for guidance. But, as usual, she had been kept in the dark, unsure, stumbling around blindly until someone finally took pity on her and nudged her in the right direction. The image of a marionette with cut strings came to mind and, along with it, a surge of animosity.

“It is,” he stated casually, watching her rigid form in his periphery, at how startled she was to suddenly be addressed. 

A smirk crossed his features as he indicated for the goblin holding the roll of parchment to unfurl it, the long strip placed across from her. He could feel the tension rising in her, entirely all too pleased that she was imploring him to tell her what to do, clinging to his presence for counsel, for instructions.

“Excellent. All we need is a bit of her blood to begin,” Alnott explained as an ornate knife, gold-handled and inlaid with rubies, materialised in his gnarled hands.

Harri stared at the blade, curved and ending in a rather malicious looking point, the light in the room catching the metal with an ominous glint. She couldn’t help herself from paling at the words, flashes of Wormtail forcefully carving into her arm, at how long it took for the flayed skin, jagged from a serrated blade, to finally stop its hemorrhaging, its weeping. Even now, she could still feel the phantom of it pressed into her skin, a zealous cut while she had been gagged and bound—‘Blood of the enemy forcibly taken’. The unbidden memories made her feel ill, dismayed, alarmed. 

While she may not be the most competent witch, one who spent her days burrowed in books like Hermione, she knew well enough that anything regarding blood was dangerous, binding-- especially when two goblin officials were demanding it from her. Alarm bells went off in her mind, the voice cautioning her against acquiescing to them sounding an awful lot like her best friend’s.

“No,” she stated plainly in her refusal, eyeing the knife in distrust, in apprehension. 

It made her queasy, her heart to quicken its tempo, for it to lurch uncomfortably in her chest. Voldemort hadn’t even given her a reason for being here yet and now he wanted her to give up her blood without a second thought? Harri couldn’t even begin to fathom a single reason, not even one justification, as to why that might be a good idea on her end. After all, she had already been forced to sign away her name to him, her properties, things that were, by right of inheritance, solely hers--what more did he need and how much more would he require until he was satisfied? 

“No?” he echoed in confusion, turning in his throne slightly to stare at her in incredulity, the hand that was propping up his chin falling away in his disbelief. 

Voldemort watched the girl at his side in a gauging manner, as though trying to understand if he had heard her correctly. But upon seeing the determination in her eyes, the outrage dancing in them, he considered that he had. His teeth ground against one another in cracking pressure, his fingers twitching for the wand strapped to his forearm, an instinctual reaction to be told ‘no’, being denied his requests. Once again, it appeared that Harri Potter was spitting on the face of his mercy, his kindness, being outwardly willful even in front of their company and his followers. 

“I’m not giving you my blood, you can’t make me,” she protested adamantly, watching in relief as the goblin set the knife down onto the table in uncertainty, blinking its beady eyes in shock at her vehement denial.

“ _Harri,_ ” Voldemort warned softly in the wake of her rising voice, at her unwillingness to comply, the fear and anger leaking through their bond. 

Crimson eyes narrowed a fraction, his fingers drumming against the wood as he tried to remind himself of patience, of Snape’s assessment that, if pushed too hard in one direction, she would rebel in the other. But compromising was never his strongest quality, even as a child, and he found himself rather disinclined to do so. ‘Always fighting and scratching, even when it brings nothing but trouble,’ he thought idly, scowling at her antics.

The tension in the room became a weighty thing as emeralds met rubies, a battle of wills to see who would win out in the end, neither wanting to bend to the other. It was as though the available oxygen was being consumed rapidly, the crackling of his magic electrifying the space and causing the panes of glass to rattle ever so slightly in their frames. And though she tried to rise to the challenge, to push her own outwards, she found herself unable to, a physical pain that made her wince in her attempts. It would appear that her little elemental stunt had drained her more than she would be comfortable admitting, a fissure in her core that only served to widen the gap in their abilities, in their dynamic. 

The Dark Lord grappled for reason, for mercy, for leniency upon seeing her flinch, knowing that she was in undeniable pain. Though that didn’t stop the inward vindictiveness at the sight, part of him cruelly wishing to gloat that that is exactly what happens when you overexert yourself, when you act childish, and give in to a tantrum spurred on by anger. Instead, he exhaled shakily, an unstable thing that relayed his waning tolerance, _“It is just a little blood, Harri. You can surely spare some.”_

“ _No!”_ she pushed her chair out from the table, a screech of wood against marble, her hands landing forcefully on the parchment in front of her, shoving it away and towards him. His audacity, his gall, for not taking her denial as the final answer inspired her temper, made her fingers curl inwards and the ache in her gums to flare.

Last time it had been just ‘a little blood’ that was taken from her, it was used in a ritual to reanimate him, to bring a monster back from the void, from death. In fact, it was the entire reason she was in this mess in the first place, the very cause of her misery and why she was confined to Malfoy Manor rather than being at Hogwarts. And she would be damned if she was forced to comply again, especially since she wasn’t even aware of his intentions, his goals. Her gaze burned as she glared down at him, shoulders in a strained taut line, her pulse a punishing rhythm in her veins, in her ears. Even though she was acutely aware of everyone’s stare on her, their flickering fear as they watched the standoff between her and the Dark Lord in uncertainty, she found herself not quite caring. ‘Let him be embarrassed by my scene,’ she thought resentfully, ‘he deserves it.’ 

_"Once again, you are acting like a child,”_ he hissed out, seething at her continued rebellion, at this exhausting game of pushing and pulling. 

The patience in him was slipping through his grasp, grains of sand falling between the empty spaces of his fingers, smoke vanishing into thin air. And try as he did to summon forth some more, to extend the already vast sea of it when it came to his horcrux, he found himself rather unable to. 

He scowled at her continuing show of defiance, his lips pulling back to bare his teeth at her. A sliver of him wondered if even following Snape’s advice was the correct thing to do--he had given her space for the past 4 days, had granted her the autonomy like he was counseled to do. Yet she was still acting out. And the Dark Lord was becoming all too painfully aware of what this must look like to his followers, to the goblins. Here he was, allowing this public display of insubordination, a teenaged girl with glowing eyes denying him what was, by all rights, a simple request. But he refused to rise to the bait, to relinquish his spot, to stand up out of the throne in his anger, to cede his power of the situation over to her and to submit to her spiteful will.

 _“Sit. Down,”_ his tone had dropped to an octave lower, cold and hostile. 

A crook of his finger and the chair she had pushed out aggressively slid back into place, slamming into the backs of her knees and forcing them to give out. It locked her in, expelling the air from her lungs as her torso was pressed, unyieldingly, into the table’s edge. The sympathy he had harboured for her earlier, for the fatigue and exhaustion she had brought upon herself, fizzled out like a campfire exposed to a torrential downpour. 

Her eyes widened for a second, dazed as she comprehended what had happened in a blur, at the fact that the elaborately carved chair was refusing to relent, to let her leave. And then suddenly his hand shot out, constricting around hers and roughly wrenching it towards himself. There was a strength in his hold that made her flinch, the delicate thin bones being crushed under the pressure, the ugly purple ring at her wrists undoubtedly about to have another companion. There was no kindness, no light, no buoyancy in this touch and it made her squirm, to struggle, to try to pull herself free as his empty one reached for the knife.

Voldemort eyed her frigidly, hellish eyes dancing with ire, as he pressed the cutting edge of the blade unyieldingly into her soft palm. A sharp hiss tore from her as he dragged it along the length of her lifeline, tears springing to her eyes as she clenched them shut, head-turning resolutely away from him. He knew she was upset, held resentment towards him, could feel it coursing through his very soul, through their connection. An acidity in his mouth, a sourness on the back of his tongue. But she would see-- her opinions would change soon enough once she realised what he was doing this for.

Refusing to allow his gaze to move away from her trembling form, he took note of the wince as his fingers maneuvered hers into a fist, a tightening squeeze. Several drops of scarlet, dark and glistening, fell onto the parchment before her, blooming greedily across the ivory scroll before suddenly vanishing. Voldemort released his hold on her, returning the bloodied knife to the goblin as the paper started to flicker, to glow and crackle in its animation. 

Harri opened an eye in reluctance at the rustling down the table, those seated abruptly jostling forwards in an attempt to get a better look, easier access, their necks craning. And then she saw why. Before her, written in her own blood, her very own essence, was the formation of an elegant scrawl rippling across the otherwise blank scroll. A crest, the head of a knight surrounded by blue roses, appeared by one name that had emerged--House of Peverell: Iolanthe. 

A frown tugged at her rosebud mouth as she glanced uneasily towards Voldemort. There was a smug expression on his aristocratic features, an arched eyebrow and a tilt of his chin for her to keep watching. House of Potter: Euphemia was the next to materialise, two stags rearing as a coat of arms. And then-- she felt sick, beyond ill, the world slowing down as her heart nearly stuttered to a stop.

House of Black: Dorea, three ravens under the name staring up at her mockingly, and she was unable to keep her lips from parting in shock. She had already figured out what the parchment was doing, what its purpose was-- to identify her magical bloodline. It was obvious when Potter had appeared, Peverell being the only one she was unfamiliar with. As for the specific names, Harri was entirely unaware of who they actually were--perhaps her most recent female ancestors of that line? 

But to see the Black family name? Harri blinked once, then twice, glancing towards the Dark Lord in pleading, in search of any sign that he was just as confused, as utterly bewildered as she was. Perhaps, even, a hope that the test had been faulty. However, the triumphant glint in his eyes, the smirk pulling one corner higher than the other, his relaxed and victorious posture. ‘He already knew.’ No small part of her, a biting grudge, felt disgusted, upset, that this was just yet another thing that he had purposefully kept from her. Who knows what else she was missing? Was completely unaware of? And while she was relieved that her blood hadn’t been used for anything too nefarious, the information it revealed was equally damning.

Harri couldn’t help herself from letting her attention drift down to the equally surprised face of Narcissa, knowing it must have been news to her. Yet, for some reason, the idea of having the kind-hearted woman as part of her family felt oddly reassuring. That, perhaps, it wouldn’t be all that terrible to be related to the Black family--even if they were notoriously unstable and infamous users of dark magic, ever so faithful to the Dark Lord. 

And then, unbidden, Sirius’s words came back to her regarding how much he had hated the lot of his family. His mother’s extensive sadism. His brother lost in service to Lord Voldemort, apparently a maniac exalted by his parents. How he had run away to the Potter’s after his father beat him close to death, his name burnt from the family tree and labeled as a ‘blood traitor’ for doing such. Cruelty and insanity. It was nauseating to know that was her lineage, her ancestry. And speaking of unsound mind— it would also mean that a certain infuriating witch was related to her as well. 

Seated beside the Malfoy woman, dark where her sister was fair, was Bellatrix Lestrange, an assessing gleam in her eyes and a cheshire grin plastered across her face. She was leaning forward on the table, her elbows propping herself up, a look of hunger, of greed, of sadistic delight, colouring her expression. Those wine red lips parted to reveal a row of perfectly shaped teeth, ones that looked ready to tear into Harri the second they had the chance to do so.

"Welcome to the family, Harrikins,” she had nearly purred, crooning out in an off-tune way as she devoured the witch further down the table, her arm stained with bloodied ink. 

This was the sanest Harri had ever seen her. No mad cackle to follow the words, no unstable burst of anger--instead, there was something far worse in the depths of those coal eyes. She felt faint, uneased, disturbed. Like her entire life had been a lie, a facade that was finally crumbling down around her without having anything left to prop it up. A curse green gaze fixated obsessively on the name Dorea Black, the blood welling up along her lifeline ignored as it steadily dripped down onto the floor in thick scarlet tears.

Just who exactly was Harri Potter?


	46. Lineages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Just a few notes before you all start reading!
> 
> 1\. I ended up having to get stitches in my hand a few days ago (box cutters are not my friends as it turns out) so that's why this chapter ended up being a tad later than usual for my updating schedule! I've been trying to edit + type with 1 hand and it has been a mess 😂 I apologize to whoever has been waiting for an update! 
> 
> 2\. I am starting to go through previous chapters and giving this fic a facelift if you will! So if you see the chapter numbers change-- don't worry. I'm just consolidating and editing through the previous ones but nothing major to the story will be changed. 
> 
> 3\. As Rowling never gave us the name of son of Charlus and Dorea, I took some creative liberties in the Black + Potter family tree. I ended up making Henry Potter their son and the father of Fleamont Potter (so Henry is Harri's great-grandfather). Euphemia and Fleamont are still her grandparents and the parents of James Potter though.
> 
> 4\. I highly recommend everyone go check out Chapter 33 if you want to see something special in the comments! AudiArcher created a piece of fanart of Harri and it is absolutely gorgeous!! Once again, you have my thanks and undying love, you beautiful angel 💕
> 
> As always, thank you guys for reading along and for giving me such helpful feedback on the last chapter! I really appreciate it and every single comment that you guys take the time to write out 💕 I hope you all enjoy this chapter as well! 💕

* * *

* * *

Dorea Black-- the name felt foreign on her tongue, unfamiliar, one that wouldn’t register in her mind no matter how hard she had tried. ‘Who was she?’ the line of thought was insistent, begging to know an ancestor that she had been entirely unaware of. Though, truth be told, Harri was ignorant of most of her lineage, of her potential relatives. Petunia had never really let too much information slip by, guarded secrets contained behind thin coral lips, and apparently even found it unnecessary to inform her niece of the names of her deceased parents. Nevermind those of her grandparents, her cousins, her muggle family. For most of her life, Harri had been known as ‘Freak’ or ‘Girl’, hidden under the stairs in a broom closet and locked inside whenever she became too curious. And even though she knew, logistically, that she had to have come from somewhere, that she hadn’t appeared out of thin air on the Dursley’s front doorstep, the secrecy had been enough to make her consider that she had. 

Well, that was until her 11th birthday had arrived. That stormy July night had symbolized her rebirth in more ways than one as Hagrid bestowed onto her an ancient familial name— ‘Potter’. But, even more importantly, he had given her those of her parents as well. And that had been enough, to fill in the gaping hole of her longing, to sate her yearning. Just knowing that she once had parents, that she wasn’t so much of an abomination to have popped into existence one fateful day. Harri had been satisfied with that gift, clinging dearly to the two words that had become her entire world in the course of a single evening-- ‘Lily’ and ‘James’. 

But now, staring down at the parchment and seeing what was written before her in blood, dried and flaking to the deep colour of wine, she felt discomposed. ‘Iolanthe’, ‘Euphemia’, ‘Dorea’. Three little names that incited sparks in her, an offsetting disquiet to her center. It was one of hunger, the aching kind that caused an insatiable itch to flourish, one that made her skin feel too constricting, too tight, her heart threatening to rupture and burst. A holy revelation. There had been more to her heritage than just her parents— ghosts of the past that lived on through every fiber, every nerve, every crevice, bone, and marrow in her body. Suddenly, she was no longer just the girl under the stairs, the freak, the orphan— she was made up of so many more people, a family that she craved to know.

Green eyes refused to budge from the slanted scrawl, trying to understand, to piece it all together. It was disconcerting and the longer she stared, the more her head began to swim with too many thoughts. Dumbledore had been so certain that she had no magical living family left, that her muggle relatives were the only ones that could have a claim to her flesh. But this parchment? It was telling an entirely different story, one that contradicted what she had been told— everything that she had based her entire world, her existence, her truths, around.

A symphony of chairs being pushed out, soft grinding noises as wooden feet scraped along the floor, mumbled out acknowledgments of their dismissal. However, none of it mattered as a shaking finger, the cut across her palm lethargically dripping in greedy blooms, trailed across the crests in reverence. Somehow, seeing an insignia next to their names lended them an official air, an irrefutable union, an unshakeable kinship. And they were, by way of pedigree, her own as well. 

Sudden warmth surrounded the weeping hand, a cradle of long fingers, and she blinked as her reverie was broken. Voldemort was dragging his thumb along her lifeline, a smear of gore as bright as his own eyes, the action almost tender in nature, an insistent pressure on the softness of her palm. Harri tracked the motion, the idle swipes, uncertain as to how to interpret it— there had been no buoyancy, no pull of light in the wake of their contact but, oddly enough, it wasn’t exactly unpleasant either. It just felt strange.

And then heat warmed her skin, radiating from the center outwards in a slight prickle that made her nerves dance as magic was willed into the curved line. The girl watched in a daze as the skin knitted back together, the smoothness suddenly unblemished, unmarred. Graceful fingers lingered for a second, as though not quite wanting to relinquish its grip, the slightest twitch of them a silent plea for her to indulge him. A heartbeat, then two, before, with reluctance, the soothing hold dropped away. 

“Barty, Bella. I am sending you both into Diagon Alley. There have been reports of alarming whispers, nasty little rumours that I want eradicated. Track down their source,” he commanded evenly, attention fixated on the mystified girl at his side. 

Confusion flickered across her face in a telling sign of knitted brows as the Death Eaters, stained with blackened blood, bowed in her periphery. Harri tracked as her guard had trailed faithfully from the room without even so much as a blink. Bellatrix, however, remained rooted in place for a moment, her mouth opening as though she had something she wanted to say, to protest. But, in the face of the lengthening silence, her jaw clicked shut before finally ceding to his orders, a look of bitterness and spite thrown towards the redheaded girl.

Harri flexed her hand as a distraction, noting in mild relief that there had been no lingering pain, no soreness, or throbbing. If Barty was to be gone for the day, then would that mean she was free? That she could roam around without being watched for once? As much as she may have disliked the man, she did find his company to be more tolerable than Voldemort’s other followers— and there was a nagging sense of guilt, deep down, that he had been punished for her own temper. 

Sparing a nervous glance over to the Dark Lord, a king in his throne, a look of unsettling contemplation lit up glowing eyes as he considered her. A beat of silence, of momentary hush and stillness, before he abruptly rose, the rustling sound of his robes shifting magnified in the quiet chamber. A tilt of his head, an indication for her to follow. ‘Guess not,’ was a sullen thought as she pushed the chair out from the table to reluctantly accompany him.

* * *

* * *

The pair was walking down an empty corridor, his strides, she had guessed, purposefully shortened for her benefit but a difficulty to match nonetheless. Harri’s mind was a whirl of sickening speeds, a tempestuous gale, thoughts circling endlessly around each other, and thriving in the lull of conversation. What did it mean that she was a Black now? Why had he done it? What was he referring to when he said there were rumours in Diagon Alley? And why did he have to send two of his Death Eaters to find out? It made her head pound, for any shred of coherent comprehension to slip away, her tongue uncomfortably heavy as she paused in her steps. Her attention became fixated on the spot between his shoulder blades, a distant thought wondering if he had always been this imposing, his back always this broad, his frame always this towering. 

“Who’s Dorea?” Harri had finally blurted out, the runaway track of her thoughts seeming to settle on the name, on the vivid crest of the ravens that had emerged in the wine-hued ink.

Voldemort paused when she did, the vaulted halls a touch too quiet without the echoing clicks of their footsteps. He spared a glance over his shoulder at the taut lines of her body, a heart-shaped face pleading but with the strangest guarded look in emerald eyes. It would appear that she was already setting herself up for disappointment, for being denied an answer to such a simple inquiry— a smirk thrived of its own free will. He had been waiting, after all, for her to simply ask, to question, to turn to him for enlightenment. More so than anyone, he could understand what it was like to grow up around Dumbledore, could relate to her being dismissed at every turn, to be denied time and time again. After all, half-baked truths and honeyed lies did very little to sate the appetite of curiosity, growing pains that he had to work through by himself, answers that he had to fight tooth and nail to uncover. But not her. No, he was more than willing to spare her that misery, that struggle, as long as she willingly turned to him. And if honesty was what would draw his horcrux to him in the end, to keep her by his side, then he wasn’t above granting her it.

“Your great-great-grandmother on your father’s side, 4 generations removed from you. She was the aunt of Cygnus, Alphard, and Walburga Black, as well as the great-aunt to Regulus, Bellatrix, Narcissa, and yes, even Sirius, Black, ” he responded indifferently, contentment a weighty thing in his chest as he resumed his footsteps, the hurried ones of hers falling into line as sweet as birdsong in his ears.

A frown flitted across her expression at the admittance, at the information, her legs working double-time to keep up with his pace. ‘Sirius is my cousin,’ a distant thought, a sharp throb in her head as she tried to understand by how much and how far removed he was from her in terms of blood. Voldemort was leading them to the study, she quickly realised, as they rounded the corner with a two-tiered bubbling fountain tucked into an ivory alcove. Why someone felt it was crucial to have a garden fixture inside was beyond her understanding, but at least it provided a distinct enough landmark to indicate where the East wing began— the side to the villa that no one else dared to encroach upon. The redhead trailed after him in a rushed manner as he began to ascend the staircase, wide and made of mahogany, severe in its grandness and austerity. 

In her distracted introspection, images of the Black family tree floated to the forefront of her mind. A muted tapestry covering the expanse of a wall, splotches burned and frayed away, specific names blackened in fits of rage. Yet, so clearly could she visualize Dorea Black on the tree, the name ‘Charlus Potter’ an added on hyphen to her solemn portrait. But the more she thought back to it, the more ascertained she was that there hadn’t been a branch below her, no indication of a progeny, a result of their coupling.

“That’s impossible though,” she muttered more so to herself, a toe clipping the tread of a stair in her absentminded daze. 

The world around her abruptly tilted forwards, a blur, her stomach dropping in instinctive panic at losing her balance- and then a firm hand was at her shoulder, steadying and firmly uprighting her. Harri winced sheepishly under the sharp reprimand in his gaze, a look of stern exasperation, the single arched brow above questioning scarlet eyes. ‘Bloody hell,’ a mortified thought as he finally withdrew his hold, horrified at the fact that she had stumbled in front of Voldemort of all people, that Fate felt it was appropriate to humiliate her just a touch further. And part of her wanted to retort that she knew how to walk, that she was normally quite graceful, his expression one that accused her of lacking such an inherently basic skill. Instead, however, she swallowed it down, not wanting to dwell on the embarrassment or to invite scathing scrutiny as he waved the doors to the office open.

“Dorea never had a child. It wasn’t on the tapestry,” Harri finally finished her original sentence, faintly registering as the mantle lit up in warming flames and the drapes pushed themselves open.

The Dark Lord rounded on his desk, hovering over it as he shuffled through the papers in an attempt to look busy, to hide the excitement he felt in having information to hold over her. Choosing to drag out the anticipation, he hadn’t responded right away, scanning critically the running letterhead of a report, and deciding only to humour her when the flickers of her irritation appeared on the boundaries of their connection. In pensive absorption, he shrugged off the black outer robes, the material floating of its own accord to hang on the three-pronged coat rack by the fireplace.

“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, Harri,” try as he did to stop from gloating, it had coloured his voice anyways, “She did have a son— Henry Potter.”

He took the plush office chair, sinking down into it and watching her bewildered expression, her parted mouth, the undeniable confusion. Some part of himself was starting to recognise a forming habit, a new vice of his, that seemed to particularly relish that specific look on her. After all, the girl did wear confusion almost as beautifully as she wore her anger, as enticingly as fear, as alluringly as despair. Crossing one long leg over another, deft fingers interlaced as elbows propped themselves up on the oak table. A self-satisfaction, a cat who got his cream smile, flourished as the Dark Lord watched the minute movements, the traces, on her face as she processed the reveal.

“Also, what’s this about a ‘tapestry’? So you mean to tell me that you have been to Grimmauld Place before, despite its supposed abandonment?” a slight chuckle escaped him at her look of unease, the one of an ill-behaved child being caught amidst a lie, her hand in the proverbial sweets cupboard despite being told to stay out of it. 

Of course, he had already guessed that she had been there before, figured that Sirius Black had taken her to its halls countless times—her puzzlement in the art gallery when he had confessed the official vacancy of the property confirming all suspicions. But still, he wasn’t above goading her, provoking her, taunting her, assuring her that nothing would remain hidden from him for long. Especially so not when she gave such appealing, such engaging, reactions. Her rigid stance, the darting eyes, her mouth being absentmindedly bit in her shame, the culpability as clear as day to him in her body language. 

“She had hidden him, of course, from the knowledge outside of her immediate household, going as far as to refusing to add his blood to the Black family tree,” he pressed onwards, crimson stare lingering just a second too long on the teeth sinking into the plushness of the bottom lip, the pull of it into her mouth. The Dark Lord forced himself to look away, directing his attention downwards to the report in his hands, a valiant attempt to deflect the beginning pulls of toxicity, the unrelenting want, rising in his chest.

If she hadn’t been before, Harri was, undoubtedly and irrefutably, perplexed at this point. Seeing Voldemort busy himself with sorting letters, assuming that she was meant to stay in the office with him for the time being, the girl drifted over to a shelf to study some of its trinkets. There was an hourglass, held aloft by intertwining snakes with vivid green scales, and she let her fingers skim across the coolness of the glass. Some grains of the gold sand clung statically to the sides and she flicked the thin walls to loosen them, tracking their path as they fell through the funnel. It was a puzzling notion, a mother concealing her son from his own family— one that she couldn’t even comprehend. After all, she personally would have given anything, sacrificed her own limbs if need be, to understand her ancestry, her bloodline, to know her true family. But if the boy had never appeared on the Black heritage wall, then it would make sense, she supposed, as to why Narcissa had been equally as shocked upon seeing the scroll.

“Why did she hide him?” she ventured to ask, the whispers of shuffling papers in the background stilling, the heavy weight of scrutiny settling over her shoulders, her back, a look that made her feel transparent and thin.

“I have my theories. Did you know that I went to school with her? Along with her nephews and nieces? Of course, she was already entering her 7th year by the time I had arrived,” he mused, entirely too off-handed, too composed, too nonchalant, a quill twirling lazily between his fingers.

Harri wasn’t quite sure as to why she had expected a laugh to follow, an indication it was a joke, a giving tell that he was trying to jest with her. But when nothing came, she whirled around in wide-eyed alarm, attempting to fathom how that was even possible. After all, he looked so young—it was jarring, entirely disconcerting when she realised that she had forgotten he was immortal, somehow that fundamental truth of his being pushed into the furthest reaches of her mind. ‘And so are you,’ a small voice nagged, stomach lurching as she strived to banish it, suppress it. Now wasn’t the time, nor the place, to deal with the newly found issue of never aging, never dying, forever tied to the earth as long as the horcrux in her was unharmed. ‘One thing at a time.’

“Sweet Merlin, how old are you?” she managed to choke out, even now finding it hard to connect the pieces when he appeared so youthful, so untouched and unravaged by the passing decades. And though she knew that, logically, wizards enjoyed far longer lives than their muggle counterparts, having someone almost as old as her great-great-grandmother sitting before her, looking not even a day over his early twenties—and even that was a generous estimation on her end— was beyond baffling.

Voldemort was unsure whether he should be offended by her question, her disbelief, or amused that she was so thrown out of her element, the concept of an everlasting life still eluding her. He placed the black plume down, the slightest shake of his head as he leaned back, idle fingers deftly undoing the cuffs of his collared shirt and rolling the sleeves to his elbows. ‘No awareness of social boundaries,’ a flash of a thought, one that made him scoff at her lack of awareness that asking someone’s age would be considered, by most polite company, an offending slight. It would seem that Narcissa’s etiquette lessons weren’t progressing along as quickly as he would have preferred.

“Even by wizarding standards, inquiring about someone’s age is quite rude, Harri. But, to answer your question, I was born in 1926. I trust that you can do the math,” his eyes narrowed a fraction at seeing her waned face, the paleness and barely-concealed look of horror as she processed the numbers, “As for my theories on Dorea’s decision, I imagine she hid her son due to her family’s connections.”

The Dark Lord shifted and uncrossed his legs, an introspective light in scarlet eyes as he watched the twisting flames in the mantle, memories of the distant past coming back to him, “Walburga and Alphard were in my inner circle during my time at Hogwarts, ready to take the mark when I started to band together the Death Eaters upon graduation. I suspect that Dorea had acted upon a motherly concern, worried that her son might be influenced by his cousins into joining my ranks.”

A wry smirk, a dry scoff as his attention drifted over to his rapt horcrux, a knowing glint in his gaze and a musing tone, “That or she was all too aware of her family’s predisposition towards the concept of blood-traitors. While she may have married into another pureblood family, the Potters were quite known for their acceptance of muggle-borns and muggles alike. Walburga was especially quite enthusiastic about purity and respectability. Having a child with a man that regularly interacted with those considered lesser would have been enough to inspire a degree of hatred towards her son.”

And despite the horrifying notion of it all— being related to such zealots of Lord Voldemort, of having ties to those who hated muggles to the extent that a mother felt the need to hide away her son just because his father was close to a few— Harri couldn’t stop the swell of pride. She had just learned that the Potters were quite tolerant and accepting, straying from the typical pureblood morality. That’s what she wanted to consider as her legacy. Not cruelty and bigotry, savagery and insanity. 

But there was still something nagging at her, a piece of the puzzle missing that she couldn’t quite figure out, a disturbing little detail that remained unaddressed.

“You said she had hidden her son and therefore he wasn’t on the family tapestry,” Harri started slowly, frowning as she began to pace the room, mind turning over rapidly in her thoughts. A sense of deja vu overcame her, far-off memories of being dressed only in her pjs as he obsessively tracked her movements, a predatory expression much like the one he currently wore. 

She tried her best to ignore it, to stay focussed, her attention drifting up from tracing patterns in the wood grain of the floor to fix him in an even stare, “But when Dorea’s name appeared on the scroll, you didn’t look the least bit surprised. In fact, you looked as though you had already guessed it. How?” 

The smirk widened into a leer, an unreadable look in hellish eyes, his body leaning closer as though he were about to tell her a secret, to let her in on the world’s greatest truth, “You look remarkably quite a bit like Bellatrix when she was younger, Harri. It wasn’t difficult to guess that there was some relation.”

Disgust pinched her features as she reeled back, offense clear in her posture and rosy lips parted in shock, in vehement protest. He cut her off before she could deny it, teeth gleaming and mirth lightening the scarlet gaze by a few shades, “Of course, there are some key differences, particularly around your eyes and mouth. Bellatrix has a sharpness in her jaw that you lack and the nose is entirely your mother’s. And then there’s the matter of the softness in your chin that makes it less pointed than hers— did you know that you are missing the cleft that’s signature to the Black family? Bella’s cheekbones are also angled a touch higher than yours are. But if you had darker hair, I might have considered you a closer relation than just a distant cousin.” 

It was a startling notion to come to that she and Bellatrix Lestrange looked even remotely alike— that he was so freely comparing the two witches without any regard to the fact that they were polar opposites, as contrasting as night and day. He was treating them as though they were mere installations in an art exhibit that invited open critique, privy to be dissected and picked apart at his leisure. And being under that perusal made her squirm, made her want to hide away from such prying observations, to seek refuge from being forced on display. Her eyes narrowed in the wake of his words, arms crossing firmly over her chest and a finger tapping in an unsettled rhythm against the crook of her elbow. It would have been fine if he had just said they looked alike and left it at that— but no, he had to point out key differences between them, an indication that he had spent more time watching her, looking at her, than she would have liked.

“Seems like you’ve spent quite some time comparing Bellatrix and I. Just a tad stalkerish, wouldn’t you say?” she couldn’t help the retort, an automatic defense whenever she found herself in a situation that set her on edge, her tongue turning silver.

Voldemort hummed in response, attention fixated on the nervous tick of her drumming fingers. ‘She truly doesn’t like attention, does she?’ And yet, even though he was aware of it, of her disinclination towards the spotlight, he found himself unable to resist the urge to goad her, to elicit any further reactions. After all, it was a rare chance indeed when they were able to be civil towards one another, to banter without chaos and destruction.

“I am a man, Harri. And, like all men, I tend to admire beauty— especially that found in women,” a delighted satisfaction coursed through him in seeing her choke, the blatant shock and surprise at his confession. 

Harri regarded the Dark Lord with affront skepticism as he spared her one last smirk, a smug glint in his gaze before he turned back to his writing. A hand drifted up to firmly pinch the sensitive skin of her underarms, trying to determine if this was an odd dream, something that her mind had conjured up to torture her or— no, it was decidedly real. The slight pain had confirmed it. The Dark Lord, in the most round-about way possible, had just referred to her as beautiful. And wasn’t that just the most ironic thing considering he, himself, looked like a descendant of the gods, a seraphic being not destined for the mortal plane. ‘Could this bloody day get any weirder?’ she thought in vain, trying to regain her composure, to fight down the threats of an embarrassed blush. 

The witch whirled on her heels, trying not to show how much his casual assessment had affected her, a startling theme over the past few days that she was becoming all too acutely aware of. ‘First Draco and now him.’ Apparently, it was a hot topic to discuss her appearance and only the heavens knew how much she hated it, despised it. The rough scratch of the nib of a quill against parchment, the crackling of the fireplace, were her companions as she drifted about the perimeter of the study, trying to distract herself, to find a semblance of calm. ‘He seems to be in a good mood,’ was an idle assessment, a contemplative frown as she ran her tongue over aching gums. For whatever reason, the Dark Lord was being amicable, hospitable, friendly even towards her, the usual bite of his explosive temper nowhere to be found. It was almost off-putting, daunting, a new tentative grey area that was treacherous to maneuver— but one that also invited opportunity. 

Harri considered that now was as good of a time as any to pry, to try to make him see reason, to perhaps earn a bit of freedom.

“It’s the first day back at Hogwarts,” she muttered hesitantly, gaze flickering to his bowed over form before landing back to the golden globe she had been spinning in a distracted manner. 

An inward curse when all the response she had gotten was a soft hum, the Dark Lord apparently not seeing fit to deign her with a fully formulated answer.

“Everyone is returning, including Draco,” Harri tried again, grappling for the right words, to find a way to get him to understand her, to see from her perspective without having him dismiss it as the passing whims of a teenager.

“Do not think I do not know what you are doing, Harri,” Voldemort mused, dipping the quill back into the inkpot while he scanned the missive he had written, gaze resolutely not lifting up to her, “Draco has a purpose at Hogwarts. You, however, do not.” 

And there it was. Him trying to shut her down, to make her obey his wishes, to not question his actions. She ground her teeth in exasperation, trying to stifle her groan of annoyance, of objection. Of course, he had already guessed where she was trying to go with the conversation— but he had forgotten who he was dealing with, a girl quite known for her stubbornness and tenacity in getting what she wanted, in being listened to. And Harri would be damned if she gave up this easily, would let it go without a fight.

“Oh? And what purpose does Draco have there?” she questioned in her best impression of nonchalance, trying to mimic the same inflections of his tone whenever he used it on her. And though it may have been petty, she wanted him to understand how much it irritated her whenever he sounded so dismissive, to give him a taste of his own medicine.

It was more of an effort than he would like to admit to stifle his scoff at her childish antics, her goading inquiry, knowing all too well what his horcrux was trying to do. Although it did inspire some amusement in him, some fondness at her willingness not to back down, her spine, he also forgot how vexing it could truly be. And he distantly wondered if he had been like this as a teenager as well— too stubborn for his own good, unrelenting until he had gotten a satisfactory answer, and his demands were met. ‘Yes, you were,’ a traitorous little voice that he batted away, suffocating and ignoring it.

“I was not aware that I had to explain every action and decision regarding my followers,” he commented bitingly, his tone just twinged ever so slightly with a warning as he signed his name in a flourish, placing the scroll to the side and reaching for another.

And this time, the agitated expel of air, the huff that made her chest rise and fall from its force, came out entirely of its own accord. ‘Typical,’ she thought with venom, glaring at the crown of his dark head, his hand still busy writing. Then her attention, quite by accident, had landed on his exposed forearms. A dangerous plan, the swirls of a reckless idea— entirely too foolish and daring, completely and utterly Gryffindor in nature.

Harri glanced uneasily down at her own palms, remembering how he had used the light, the warmth, to make her comply in the past. Recollections flitted in her consciousness of his own glazed expression, his laboured breathing, how his pupils had dilated ever so slightly in the art gallery— the compulsion was a two-way street and, as much as he might try to deny it, Voldemort was not entirely immune to the pull. ‘If he can do it, who’s to say that I can’t?’ a whisper that only served to encourage, pushing her forwards, rearing for a chance to level the playing field. If this was how she could get her way, to make him see some sense, then why shouldn’t she give it a go?

On uncertain feet, she cautiously made her way over to the high-backed chair, regarding him as he didn’t seem too bothered or alarmed by her sudden approach. The heart between the spaces of her ribs began to pound erratically, a giddiness outweighing the caution, the apprehension. ‘Focus on the light,’ her mind instructed as she rounded on the desk, attention latched onto the exposed expanse of the arm resting on the table. A shaky inhale of breath was drawn and held. Harri considered that this was a terrible idea, that he might become, undoubtedly, upset and angered with her attempts to manipulate him should she fail. But he did it so often to her and, if it was a side effect of the horcrux, then why shouldn’t she exploit it? Capitalize on any advantage she could? 

A tongue darted out to wet suddenly chapped lips as she drew ever so closer, pausing only when she stood by his shoulder. Yet, he didn’t seem to really notice nor care that she was behind him, his gaze trained firmly on the report. ‘Last chance to back down,’ logic urgently shouted, desperately wanting to make her understand what she was attempting to do, to have her see the bigger picture and the consequences should he react negatively. Harri resolutely shook her head, a spray of auburn hair, trying to find her spine of steel—her courage, the flame that always inspired bravery whenever she needed it most. 

Her hand landed hesitantly on his forearm, mildly taken back when the cord of muscle flexed instantaneously under the feather-light touch. The girl had almost pulled away, spooked by the sudden jump under marble skin, but forced herself to stay the course for her plan. She briefly wondered if he could feel the punishing tempo of the pulse in her veins, could sense her nervousness, her wariness, the reckless abandon through her fingertips. Could he figure out what she was attempting to do?

It was an odd sight to behold— her hand on him for a change, the delicate bones visible under the thin skin somehow seeming even smaller, even more fine in comparison to the Dark Lord. ‘Focus,’ swallowing past a too-dry throat, she tried to visualize the feelings of the light, the pull, the syrup. She considered that’s all he had done whenever he used it on her— just thought about it, willed it to life. Brows furrowed in concentration, a sense of overriding panic when it hadn’t automatically appeared, the bond not heeding her call. Had she guessed wrong in his methods? That, perhaps, it was a spell after all, one that he could do wandlessly, wordlessly? ‘Am I doing it wrong? What does he-’ 

Then there it was. The ever so slightest flicker, the weak flame of a candle that was ready to be extinguished in the face of the slightest breeze. But it was there nonetheless— that’s all that mattered. Even though it wasn’t as strong as when he called it forth, not as overwhelming, it was enough to make its presence known. Harri suddenly felt like singing in her victory, to bounce in her joy, to dance, to revel in the accomplishment. To gloat that he wasn’t the only one to have power over their connection any longer, that she now had the chance for equal control. 

Voldemort willed himself not to move as she had gotten closer, not wishing to startle her into withdrawing, into running away. The image of a doe ready to flee at the slightest tell of danger materialised, one inspired by her uncertain steps. It was a curious thing, seeing her be the one to approach him first, and his mind was turning with possibilities as to why. Then her hand had landed on his forearm, crimson eyes drifting over to observe those gracefully frail fingers, the almond shape of bare nails tinged just slightly pink. The contact was warm against his skin, the lightest brush as though she were unsure of herself. It had been an entirely instinctive reaction, the tightening of the muscle, and he cursed himself for reacting in such a physical manner — however, she hadn’t pulled away like he thought she would, hadn’t reared back in her surprise. 

The Dark Lord held his breath, the hand in his lap twitching as he felt the lightest strain of their connection, the faintest pleasure of two fractured souls merging for the briefest of a second. A smirk unfurled, the urge to laugh in incredulity threatening to override his self-control. ‘The little minx,’ fond disbelief at her attempts to manipulate him, to control him. And he wasn’t sure whether to be outraged at her audacity, impressed by her nerve, cynical at how miserably she was failing, or pleased by her efforts to connect with the horcrux— all four emotions whirled in him as he obsessively watched those fingers trace over his skin.

“It isn’t fair that everyone else gets to go back and I have to stay here,” she explained after a few seconds, her concentration focused solely on the failing attempt to make the bond flare to life, to make it grow and become overwhelming. 

However, it was harder than she could have realised, the light seemingly content to remain a dim glow. Her brows lowered in frustration as the triumph evaporated from her system. No small part of her just prayed it would be enough, that the buzzing flickers of warmth would be sufficient in catching him off guard.

At her words, he truly couldn’t help himself from scoffing, from letting loose a breathy chuckle. ‘So that’s her goal.’ The Dark Lord let the girl continue her power trip for a heartbeat longer, content that she was touching him of her own accord. And then the hand in his lap shot up, gripping her elbow to yank her forward with an abrupt strength. A surprised yelp as her free hand pressed firmly into his chest, an attempt to keep herself balanced, to avoid tumbling into his lap. Something predatory settled as a dense weight in his heart, a darkness that sang for more, a depraved satisfaction as the arm on the desk shrugged off her touch— it latched firmly onto the back of her neck, drawing the witch down to him with an unyielding pressure that made her go lax in the face of an unspoken threat.

“It is best not to mess around with things that you do not quite know how to control yet, Harri,” he mused in a soft warning, lips moving against the shell of her ear. 

With their closeness, their proximity, he could feel the inconsistent drumming of her heart, the flutters in her pulse, the quiet gasp of a breath. And how glorious it was— a song made solely for him.

“After all, it would be a shame if you got hurt,” a whisper, a contemplative thought, an overwhelming urge that he decided to act upon. 

His teeth sank into the cartilage of her ear, a firm hold that didn’t quite draw blood but had just enough pressure to make her thrash in shock. There was something base and primal in him that was always drawn to the surface in her presence, instincts hard to suppress— though try as he usually may. But he supposed that she had brought it upon herself for having willingly, knowingly, tried to coax it out of him, to make him bend to her will. A quick lave of his tongue, a heated pull to soothe the sting, his fingers twitching minutely around her neck and digging into its softness. There was a quiet inward hitch in her throat, the breathiness indicating its nature didn’t stem entirely from just simple surprise. Then Voldemort released her, watching in elation, in delight, as she stumbled back a few steps with an owlish stare, mouth dropped in shock. 

Harri staggered back, mortification flushing her skin as a trembling hand grasped at her ear, trying to comprehend how terribly her plan had backfired. He was leering at her and, despite the composure on his face, there was a hellish glow in his eyes that made her ear throb, her heart to flutter uncomfortably. A sinking feeling, a heavy pit in her stomach, that, somehow, despite being the one trying to manipulate him, to exert some influence, it was her who had gotten played in the end.

“You bit me! Why are you always biting me!?” she accused, her voice pitching in indignation, trying to ignore the phantom sensation of too sharp teeth latched onto her ear, the residual warmth and heated pull, the lingering ghostly fingers about her neck. 

“I warned you, did I not? Do not start things you can not handle,” he shrugged, self-satisfaction evident in the way the left corner of his mouth slid higher than the right, an eyebrow pointedly arched as he regarded her appalled expression, the slightly dilated pupils, the blush dusting her cheeks. It suited her and he decided, in the moment, to add embarrassed arousal to the ongoing list of his favorite reactions from Harri Potter. 

She floundered for words, for an appropriate response to his taunts, to ground herself and willfully suppress the heat fanning across her skin. Somehow, him so blatantly throwing her failure into her face, the complete misfire of her actions, fuelled her forward. At least enough so to make her try to bury her flustered discomposure under the mask of outrage. 

A valiant attempt to move forward, she clung to what had spurred her on in the first place, eyes flashing as she ground out, “It isn’t fair! What—do you expect me never to finish school?! For Merlin’s sake, I haven’t even completed the year!” 

There was a wry laugh, teeth gleaming as he granted her the small mercy of letting her embarrassment slide for once by not continuing his barbs. Honestly, her reaction to something as simple as being nipped on the ear made him wonder what her past experience even was in regards to physical intimacy. A conversation for a different time— unbidden memories of a sudden spike of pleasure appearing in their bond, the vile jealousy of wanting to know who she was with, a cleanly cracked in two mantelpiece. ‘Another day,’ a voice cautioned, burying the possessive envy before it could ruin the moment, a spite that was to be saved for a separate occasion. Anyhow, he doubted she would react favourably if he started questioning her right now, demanding to know the extent of her past relations, to tell him who had dared to touch her in the first place. 

And then he was leaning back, fingers interlaced and steepled, regarding her in pensive reflection and all too glad for a distraction, for a different thread of conversation. It was true that her lack of education was troubling, something he sought to remedy. After all, it was vital that she knew how to defend herself amidst his hounds— not that those with a wish to continue living would raise a hand against her— and there was definitely some appeal in shaping her raw talent, in refining it to how he saw fit, in making her a formidable force that could stand equal with him. He considered it would be the greatest revenge on Dumbledore as well, should the meddlesome old man be watching from the afterlife. To take his ‘golden child’, his ‘Chosen One’, and twist her, form her, make her lean into the darkness in her core that she was so blatantly ignoring.

“I never said that you would not finish school, Harri,” a snap of his fingers and a book floated out from the shelf, “Of course, it will be a tad bit more unorthodox than what you are used to. Though, I can assure you, my mentorship will be far more valuable than any of the drivel that you could possibly learn at Hogwarts.” 

Pale fingers reached for the volume hovering in the air, a look of confusion colouring her expression at its title: _The Basis of Wandless Spell Casting_. He was offering her answers, a chance to learn, something that she thought he would never willingly allow. Harri glanced uneasily towards him at the revealing of his plan, of his intention to personally teach her. True, he was a prodigy when it came to magic— even Ollivander had made sure she knew it all those years ago upon obtaining her first wand; “After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great.” And, back then, she hadn’t really understood what the wandmaker had been referring to, unable to comprehend his meaning. 

But oh, how the times have changed. Seeing him so casually bend magic to his will, how readily it responded to him in even the simplest of commands, how he was practically drenched in it to the point it was sometimes palpable. Magic loved him, adored him, flourished around him, was his very essence. Voldemort was, admittedly, in a different league than any other wizard she had ever met, a being carved and crafted by powers she couldn’t even begin to fathom. And while Harri understood that being taught by him, the most nefarious Dark Lord of their time, a wizard with questionable morals and a warped core, should unnerve her, scare her— it didn’t. Instead, the faintest glimmer of giddiness thrived, a feeling that she didn’t want to examine, to even begin to understand, what it meant for her or her personality. 

“Sit and read,” he tilted his head towards the lounge, reaching once again for the quill in the inkpot and eager to forget the residual sparks of desire in his system, “Starting Sunday evenings, Severus will be here for occlumency lessons. As much as I enjoy your company, Harri, your bleed through in our bond is astronomical, and, frankly, it would be quite helpful not to constantly have a headache brought on by your unrestrained emotions.”

The redheaded witch blinked once, then twice, trying to comprehend what he was offering, what he was giving her on a silver platter. It was disconcerting, confusing, perturbing. None of it made any sense. Why was Voldemort wanting to help her, to better her? Wouldn’t it be easiest to keep her in the dark, powerless and untrained? After all, what if she turned on him? Used whatever he was going to show her to overthrow his reign? And the more she reflected on it, the more anxious she felt, her brows knitting together as she nervously thumbed the tome’s pages.

“Why?” it took all of her courage to ask, part of her torn between wanting to know the answer but also being afraid of it.

“Consider them gifts, an olive branch, and a show of good faith if you will. I meant it when I said I would like your cooperation,” Voldemort muttered under his breath, his words carrying nonetheless as the plume danced along the parchment in his elegant scrawl.

Harri wondered if she was a fool for accepting his message at face value, for some reason believing in its authenticity— despite having no reason to apart from the fact that he never truly outright lied to her face. She even wondered if it was wise accepting his help, these so-called “gifts”, all reason warning her against what he would eventually ask for in exchange. What kind of recompense would he demand from her? And, most importantly, would it be a price she was willing to pay? Emerald eyes glanced down at the text in her hands, the leather cover worn from age, a war of two truths in her mind. Logic and caution versus desire and anticipation.

A sigh, a heavy sound, escaped her as she finally gave in, wandering over to the lounge and settling herself among the cushions. Truthfully, it wasn’t as though she had much of a choice— who knew what the future even held for herself, for her friends, under the rule of Lord Voldemort. If he was willing to mentor her, then she might as well take the afforded opportunity—if not for her sake than for those she cared for. And it wasn’t even like she would be able to defeat him the way she was now, with a half-baked and half-formed education. It was a bitter truth that seemed to be universally acknowledged, Snape himself making her aware of it on multiple occasions. The smell of dust, of antiquity and knowledge, wafted out from the cracked spine of the book as she opened the cover. 

* * *

* * *

Much like Harri Potter, there were a few others who would not be returning to Hogwarts later in the day, never destined to board the Express and find themselves wandering the stone halls until the start of summer vacation. One of these students in question was none other than Hermione Granger, a witch whose thirst for knowledge often took the foremost importance in her life. Instead of being on the train, excited to start her second term’s courses, she, along with the Weasley children, had found themselves hidden in the Order’s secondary base— a two-story house tucked somewhere away in the rolling hills of the English countryside and overlooking the coastline. 

And though she was perfectly aware as to why it would be unwise, and ill-advised, to return to the castle, it did very little to lessen the sting at being kept away, at being denied her rights to an education. Though Remus had assured them that he would personally continue their curriculum, a form of practical home-schooling, the brown-haired girl still found herself discontent, dissatisfied, and itching from confinement. 

After the attack on Grimmauld, it had been unanimously decided that it was best to shelter in place for the time being. They had lost Emmeline Vance and Kristopher Dearborn in the unexpected raid, Sirius and Remus only returning bruised, bloodied, and broken by the miracle of a house-elf. In spite of her and McGonagall’s combined research on healing magic, the women reading into the hours before dawn to find a cure, Sirius was still left with a rather nasty limp after the ordeal. He hadn’t been able to identify the spell his cousin had used on his leg, a crucial missing detail not quite helping his cause, but it was the common consensus that it had been undeniably dark— the kind of curse that was meant to permanently maim. 

There were very few things in Hermione's life that eluded her, made her feel like an utter disappointment. But seeing the man shamble about the cottage was one of them. It was a nagging feeling that she had, somehow, failed him, her best friend’s only family, by being unable to restore him to his full vigor. And, in her pessimistic opinion, the entire house reeked of failure. Their biggest accomplishment, their only one in fact so far, was that _The Quibbler_ had been restored into full swing. 

The newspaper was the best way, she figured, that they could fight back for now while they still lacked the numbers— if they could expose their government’s corruption, Lord Voldemort’s influence, just a little, then perhaps they could rally more to their cause. Of course, it did nothing in terms of achieving their main goal of saving Harri but there was only so much one could do without manpower. And so when the time came that _The Quibbler’s_ box in Diagon Alley needed to be restocked with the newest issue, Hermione more than readily volunteered herself. Anything to get out of the stifling environment, to stretch her legs, to find a sense of normalcy in the bustling crowds, and take her mind off her own failings. 

* * *

* * *

That’s how the girl found herself wandering through the steady throngs of the shopping district that Monday afternoon. A stack of colorful papers clutched in her arms and chest airy from exposure to everyone’s carefree joy. Ron had offered to tag along— Hermione frowned slightly, a vague sense of guilt passing through her upon reflection of the ginger-haired boy’s crumpled expression. She considered that she might have been a bit too harsh, a bit too abrupt, in her vehement deniance but she prayed he might understand. After all, there was only so much company she could take and this was her chance to feel freedom, to have some time alone with her scattered thoughts.

Hermione paused in front of the newspaper stand at the center of the strip, a cardboard box designated with a sign declaring the copies were free to take. Seeing the old pile nearing its bottom, however, was enough to chase away the frown with a quirk of a smile. People were reading their words, their message, and were, perhaps, finally becoming enlightened— that was enough of a win in of itself even if it was slow progress. Brown eyes drifted down to the headline for this issue, an extensive coverage of the unjust trial of Bertie Higgs, determination unfurling in her. ‘The pen is mightier than the sword,’ a firm thought as she placed the new stack atop the old, completely unaware of two dark gazes watching her from the shadows.


	47. Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I finally managed to get this chapter finished-- sorry about the delay! In the comments, a few of you have been asking about the Dursleys and I just want to let you know that they will be making an appearance very soon. I am so so so excited to get the next two or so chapters up because I think you'll guys like what I have planned! 💕
> 
> Also, I am consolidating some previous chapters so apologies for the changes in chapter numbers! I am about half-way done with editing previous ones and am trying to finish it all by next week. 
> 
> As always, thank you everyone for continuing to read along and for showing me + this story such love! You guys are all amazing readers and I feel so lucky to have you this invested in my first fanfic 💕 Thank you for every single comment, kudos, and bookmark-- you guys make my day!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy 💕

Bartemius Crouch often wondered about his luck in life. More specifically, what he could have possibly done to inspire Fate to use him as its own personal punching bag. True, he had tainted himself with the darkest of magic, had allied himself against the supposed “light” side, had lied, deceived, and tricked all in the name of his Lord. But he also did wonders of good during his short existence— like, for example, helping Harri Potter survive the Triwizard Tournament. Though, it could be said that it was entirely his fault in the first place that she had been thrown into the competition—but regardless

He had provided his aid, made sure the girl would get to the maze, had propped her up time and time again. Out of the two Hogwarts champions, he had placed all of his faith into her underdog status, taking it upon himself to personally guide and teach the witch. Not to mention, he had ensured his students would have a semi-decent education— and quite frankly, judging by the old syllabus he had found in the teacher’s desk, it was a miracle that they even passed their past exams at all. In fact, Barty considered that, in another life where his calling wasn’t in service to something far greater than himself, he would have become a permanent fixture among the Hogwarts staff.

Yet, despite all of these deeds that were done out of the kindness of his heart, that should have rightfully racked up plenty of karmic debt in his favour, he found himself here— in Diagon Alley and being saddled with Bellatrix Lestrange. It wasn’t as though he despised the woman, oh no. He most certainly held some respect for her as a witch, as a dueller, and as a confidant to the Dark Lord. But her personality left many things to be desired, her biggest shortcoming that made her company border on the unbearable. Part of him considered that this was an add-on punishment for failing to prevent his charge from overextending and magically exhausting herself. Even so, having to accompany the deranged Death Eater was going a touch too far in his opinion.

Dark eyes slid over to the woman in question, the foul mood a darkening cloud heavy about her petite frame. Pedestrians scurried out of the way, an instinct quite wise to act upon as they dove out of her warpath. While Barty wasn’t exactly privy to the nature of her relationship with their Lord, he considered she wasn’t often punished publicly— or at least that’s what the depressing aura relayed. ‘She deserves it,’ a bitter thought, grimacing at the phantom sensation of the burn licking his skin, the cracked and bleeding mark. Honestly though, what had she expected? The witch had purposefully antagonised the one person that was declared off-limits— and try as she may to deny it to their Lord, he recalled that look of hatred in a venomous gaze all too clearly. Bellatrix had been about to curse the young girl if he hadn’t stepped in, a slight that would have, undoubtedly, led to something far worse than weeping ink and blistering heat

“You’ve spent quite some time around Potter,” a frown tugged the corners of his mouth downwards as his attention latched on to her words, the tone casual as she inspected painted clawed nails in a faux show of boredom.

The pair were wandering the Alley with open eyes and ears, seeking out anything of suspicion— to no availing luck on their end. Barty regarded her critically, dreading where this conversation was heading. Though, the man figured it was bound to happen eventually, considering the girl’s display in the throne room— after all, both Death Eaters had felt the magic coming from her, the alluring call of its signature.

“I know as much as you do, Bellatrix,” sharply cutting her off before she could go any further with the train of thought, before she could pry and demand everything he knew regarding the redhead’s relationship to Lord Voldemort, “and it’s not our place to question him or his actions.”

Bella scoffed at the response, tossing a glare towards a group of oncoming children, all too content when they scattered at the stormy expression shadowing her face, “She has his signature. It shouldn’t even be possible, we both know it.”

“And yet it is,” Barty snapped back firmly, gaze darting about the crowd in unease as though their Lord may just appear, summoned and called forth from the void by their defiance.

They shouldn’t even be talking about it, be openly discussing the nature of the relationship. Whatever had changed between The Girl Who Lived and the Dark Lord was an unknown, a mystifying secret, a private matter that they, as his followers, were not privy to understanding. If their leader didn’t see fit to enlighten them, then it must mean it was a matter of importance, a fundamental truth that was to remain out of their grasp and comprehension. And quite frankly, Barty was rather fond of his head, his life, the idea of jeopardizing either in search of answers an unappealing notion.

He had been about to say something else, to warn her to drop the subject if she knew what was for the best, when a sight further down the strip caught his attention. A mass of curly brown hair, caramel eyes, a stack of colourful papers clutched in thin arms. The girl had spent almost two years in his classes, enough so that he would remember her— especially considering the witch was a close companion of Harri Potter, always occupying a spot next to the redhead. But what was Granger doing here in Diagon when, by all accounts, she should be back at Hogwarts?

It was a well-known fact amongst the staff that she was the brightest witch of her year, bordering on being an overachiever at times and always raising her hand high in the air during lectures. As such, it was impossible to imagine her playing hooky, deciding to skip the first day back when she so obviously loved learning.

Bellatrix frowned, tracing her companion's line of sight, tongue running over sharp teeth in contemplation, “You know her?”

Barty tilted his head for the dark-haired witch to follow, ducking into a shadowed alcove and watching with keen interest as his former student approached the newspaper stand. He stared in a squinted fashion, trying to make out the words of the pastel magazines clenched in her hands.

“Hermione Granger,” he mused, tracking the girl from the shadows as he trailed after her, Bellatrix hot on his heels.

“Granger?” an echo from behind, the tone lilt with a question, “Half-blood?”

“No. Muggle-born,” he supplied, ignoring his partner’s inward drawn hiss of displeasure as though he had admitted to something inherently depraved, “She was close to Potter at school.”

Dark eyes glinted as he watched the mass of curls pause in the throng of the crowd, hovering near a cardboard box that was propped up beside the official Prophet stand. ‘Interesting,’ a passing thought as she deposited the flyers into it, sparing a nervous glance over her shoulder before slipping back into the steady thrum of patrons in the shopping district. A blur of movement at his side— a flash of a warped wand in his periphery— and his hand shot out in a punishing grip, whirling around in disbelief, in incredulous shock.

“What are you doing?!” the Death Eater hissed out, fingers squeezing into the softness of the woman’s forearm, affronted that she was attempting to hex an unarmed teenager in broad daylight.

“You said she was Potter’s friend,” Bellatrix snipped in retort, yanking her arm free of the tightening hold, “I’m taking her in for questioning.”

“You absolute lunatic,” they wrestled for a second in the shadows of the side alley, two pairs of dark eyes flashing in outrage, a struggle of flesh and bone as one aggressively shoved, the other countering in rapid succession.

He had finally managed to pry her fingers from the wand, jumping back just in time as she bit at the empty air, an audible click of teeth gnashing together. Holding the curved wood over his shoulder, far from her grappling reach, Barty found himself cursing, yet again, for being burdened as her babysitter. Somehow, in the dim lighting, the woman looked even more crazed than usual, a predatory air to her that sent a chill down the length of his spine— an unpleasant reminder of who he was currently dealing with.

“Our Lord said to track down the source of the rumours,” a sharp voice countered, distantly wondering if the witch perhaps had a death wish after all, “Not to kidnap an underaged girl in the middle of Diagon Alley! I don’t know about you but I personally don’t want to experience his displeasure again— or have you already forgotten our punishment for your little slip-up?”

Painted lips pulled back to reveal a row of too sharp teeth, a muscle twitching in her brow, hooded eyes glinting with a contemplative light— as though she were considering all the ways to kill a man without using magic. Fury, a bright and angry thing, blazed in her chest, a tang on her tongue, smoldering embers in an onyx stare. All attention was fixated on her wand in his hold, at those daring hands that gripped it, keeping her from the truest companion of her life.

“You dare to take a witch’s wand,” Bellatrix’s fingers twitched at her side, her ire only growing that how he hadn’t flinched, hadn’t cowed, hadn’t rushed out an apology, “That little mudblood obviously knows something!”

“You are defying direct orders from our Lord. Are you implying that you know what’s best— better so than him? If he wanted us to bring someone in, he would have said so,” Barty grappled for a reason, driven on by an urge to make the witch forget the girl in the alley, to make her understand that doing unnecessary things that were not explicitly commanded would only lead to discipline-- triumphant success as the refined face crumpled, shock alight for the briefest of a second in those dark depths.

A scathing glare, a small part of her finding truth in his rationality. After all, they were never told what to do with the source if they found it— only to track it down and report it back. A phantom sensation of the cracked open mark, the ink weeping from it, the tormenting sting that refused to abate, the acrid taste of his wrath. Nonetheless, despite how correct he was, it was still a bitter thing to swallow.

“Fine,” a bitter acquiescing tone, pale hand extended expectantly, satisfied enough when he hesitantly returned the wand to her grasp, “Let the little traitor walk free for now.”

And then she was sauntering out of the shadowed side alley, Barty unable to resist the urge to scrub his hands over his face, his jaw, in the aftermath of the entire ordeal. A part of him considered he had just dodged a bullet— one that could have caused a rather devastating amount of damage. He could already vividly picture the headlines declaring a girl was kidnapped in the middle of Diagon, the vexation of their Lord at having to create a convincing press release to combat the disaster, the certainty that they wouldn’t be let off with just a burn in their arms and an ache in their bones. The man found himself cursing Fate for ever putting Bellatrix Lestrange into his path, hurrying after the witch once he realised she had managed to disappear from sight.

But there, further down the main drag of the shopping district, a maniacal glee stretching her features too thin and a pastel tabloid between her clawed fingers. Coal eyes glanced up from reading it, a smugness in them as she tauntingly waved the newspapers Granger had left behind— a clear as day gloating that the source of the rumours was found.

* * *

* * *

The book was, in Harri’s humble opinion, dull and difficult to read. The language was ancient, clunky, certain words unable to stick— the prose just as dry and brittle as the worn pages. And, more often than not, had she found herself drawn from the text by the scratch of a quill’s nib, a louder-than-normal pop in the mantle as a log splintered, the soft exhales from a red-eyed man whenever he seemed to be particularly displeased by what was written in the missives. Nagini, at some point, had wandered into the study in search of respite from the day’s chill, a content weight currently coiled on her legs as the serpent dozed off.

The girl considered what the scene must look like to an outsider--how domestic, quaint. Her, on the lounge and attempting to read while an idle hand stroked the smooth scales along the creature’s spine, the Dark Lord making headway through the stack of reports littering the desk. Green eyes considered him out of her periphery, still attempting to digest, to comprehend, the strangest turn the day had taken. Some part of her had expected to be disciplined for the earlier defiance in the throne room, for him to be upset and in a foul mood. However, he was congenial, hospitable, good-natured almost, a generous offer extended to teach her. And truth be told, she wasn’t quite sure what was more startling— the fact she was giddy for the opportunity or that she was finding herself not entirely minding the curiously comfortable atmosphere of the study. 

In a vague way, it almost reminded her of the Gryffindor common room. A space of pleasant warmth, homely in nature, entirely safe. And wasn’t that just the most dumbfounding feeling? The most laughable thing? Especially so considering what had happened in the office prior— all of the bloodshed, the inflamed tempers, the violence. Not to mention the fact that there was a Dark Lord, known in their world for murder and vengeance, seated barely a few feet from her. And yet, Harri found herself sinking into the idea all the same. A needy and desperate side existing to her personality that sought out a semblance to her old life, no matter how odd or misplaced it was.

Her attention drifted back to the book, brows knitting together as she tried to focus back on the opened page. The witch read it once, then twice, a third time just to make sure she was processing the information correctly before abruptly slamming the cover closed. Voldemort paused in his writing at the sudden disruption to the quiet, gaze lifting upwards in a questioning manner as his horcrux twisted on the lounge to face him. There was dismay bright in her gaze, a look of horrified alarm as she displaced his familiar, a sharp hiss from the snake that relayed its agitation.

“I could have died?!” she fumbled for coherency, the passage flashing in her mind at how improper wandless casting often led to magical exhaustion, for a wizard’s core to burn up and fully extinguish.

A sense of nausea as she reflected back to the feelings of illness in the throne room, how her heart had refused to calm down, and the world unsteady beneath her feet, “Why didn’t you warn me!?”

The Dark Lord quirked a brow at her theatrics, the panic reflected in her gaze. There was the slightest pull of satisfaction at seeing her so off-kilter, that the girl was finally understanding how reckless, idiotic, foolish she had been. It was a fitting lesson, he supposed, that she found out of her own volition. After all, it would make the truth sink in better, would ensure that it hovered in the back of her mind as a warning if the harsh reality came from a source other than his lips. 

“Theoretically, yes. Though, it would not have been a death in the traditional sense. More so that you would have been suspended in a state of agony until your core had the opportunity to repair itself,” a nonchalant statement, too matter of fact as he regarded the way her mouth parted, how she looked a tad paler than usual, “And I tried, did I not? I cautioned you to calm down.”

At the casual dismissal, Harri couldn’t help but gape at him, completely at a loss for words. Suddenly, the strangest urge to throw the tome at his head, to rip out her hair at his lack of understanding, was overwhelming. Voldemort was so blasé even when discussing the unfortunate fate that could have befallen her— teeth ground against one another at the lack of compassion. ‘How can someone be so brilliant yet so bloody idiotic at the same time,’ the thoughts fumed, trying to string together an impactful enough sentence to portray her shocked incredulity.

“There’s a huge difference between a ‘hey, you’re really upset and it’s ruining the mood,’ and a ‘you’re going to magically exhaust yourself to death’, you git,” at the frown crossing his features, an expression indicating he was about to correct her, Harri groaned, exasperation practically palpable in her voice, “Right sorry— void, pardon me.”

Crimson eyes glittered in contemplation, in amusement at her insult and rising anger, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly, “And would you have listened to me if I told you that you were going to extinguish your core if you continued?”

Words truly did escape her this time as her mouth opened and closed, logic desperately trying to turn her off from the idea of hurling something at him, of going up and giving him a well-deserved kick to the shin. After all, he was, begrudgingly, somewhat correct— she probably wouldn't have listened, at least not in the heat of the moment. The girl stifled the scream threatening to claw its way up her throat, fingers massaging at her temples to chase off the impending headache. ‘He truly is an idiot,’ a resentful passing thought, unable to resist glaring as the Dark Lord hummed in pointed victory while dipping the quill into the inkpot.

“How does this work anyways? The whole me not dying bit?” Harri questioned after a few moments, enough time passing that his head no longer looked like a tempting target.

“It is exactly what it implies,” he mused, signing a report in a flourish as the wax heated in the divot of a spoon, “You will retain eternal youth, will never grow old, never cease to breathe— as long as the horcrux in you remains unharmed.”

And though so many people would give anything in the world to be in her position, to hold the secret of immortality in their hands, to cheat death, it made her stomach lurch. What would happen in the next few decades when those she cared for finally passed away? How was she supposed to live with herself knowing that she would have to watch them all die? It sounded like a lonely existence. Everyone finally got to move on, to go forward, while she was stuck in the same static position. ‘You have him though,’ a traitorous little voice that only served to spike her anxiety, discomforted at the idea. In the past, his words of them having an eternity together never really held much weight, was never really something that she had seriously reflected upon. But now the warning was all too real, too grim, too somber.

“When you say ‘eternal youth’?” the redheaded witch finally mumbled, brows knitting together as she tried to picture herself forever looking the same.

“If that is your vague way of asking if you will never get wrinkles, then yes,” he supplied, mirth bleeding into his voice at her line of thinking and all too delighted that she was finally turning to him for answers, “Your body will be in a perpetual state of vigor. Never aging, your genetic code never breaking down.” 

The lurching progressed into a full-blown ache, bile in the back of her throat the more she considered it, “But I’ve been aging up until this point? Right?

The Dark Lord hummed in response, pressing his signet down into the emerald wax as an introspective light glazed over his eyes. There were so many questions regarding her that he had as well, so many swirling thoughts and fears, ones that he didn’t quite have an answer to. She was prodigal, a rarity, a case like hers never existing before— and how that both excited him yet filled him with simultaneous trepidation. After all, any past knowledge he had about horcruxes, about parselmouths, were thrown out the window when it came to the girl. Most texts only ever addressed inanimate vessels, ones where, by their inherent nature, aging was never a concern.

And she had yet to even develop her own venom, to go through the final metamorphosis that was signature of their kind— something that he had already long completed by her age. Though, try as he did to research it in Salazar’s journals, the existence of female parselmouths were sparse, few and far in between. As such, texts only really pertained to males. Some sliver of him feared that she may never transition at all-- that, perhaps, the shard of his soul would prevent her from doing so. ‘Though that may be for the best,’ a voice justified, unable to stop the frown at its point and partially agreeing. After all, he knew from personal experience that it was uncomfortable, painful, the change one of agony. Plus, the very idea of having to explain to her the details, that she would, essentially, be going through a second form of puberty— needless to say, it wasn’t exactly a conversation he was rearing to have.

“Ah, see that is where I have to do some guessing on my end. You are a rather special case, Harri,” a soft mutter as he lifted scarlet eyes back to her, leaning back in the chair and fingers interlacing together, “I have not been able to find any texts pertaining to a living human as a horcrux vessel. However, I imagine once you reach your magical majority, you will stop. But then again, only time will be able to tell.”

A bitter laugh, her hands running through her hair as a physical outlet to her agitation, mind still swimming as it tried to comprehend the new fundamental fact of her existence, “Forever 17. Wow, lucky me.

He scoffed at her sarcasm, at her inability to understand what a gift he had truly given her. In all sense of the word, he had spared her from death, from aging, from being saddled with a feeble body-- one that would, eventually, become too frail and weak to even care for itself any longer. Then again, he supposed that the girl did still have attachments to her mortal friends, those who would age and eventually die themselves. Not that he could relate to that particular plight. As it currently stood, there wasn’t much to be done about those connections except to let them slowly wither away— they would have to at some point. And there was no small part of him that was anticipating the day when time’s jagged blade would sever those pesky relationships, leaving her with very few options for companionship. Voldemort was quite certain that would be the day she would choose him wholeheartedly, seek him out as her one true comfort. It wasn’t like she had much of a choice— the availability of other immortal beings was less of a puddle and more of a raindrop.

But, for now, the Dark Lord supposed he should assure her, make her see the light at the end of the tunnel, console, and give her some relief. However, as he opened his mouth to do so, to exchange a platitude, his words died in his throat, cut off by her interruption.

“There’s a way to destroy it though, right?” she blurted out, unable to stand the images superimposed behind her lids.

Try as she did to banish them, all she kept seeing in her mind’s eye were tombstones all neatly lined in a row. Sirius, Remus, Hermione, Ron, even Hedwig— countless more to follow, some blank from their engravings to represent those she had yet to meet. How many would she come to care for only to watch them perish in the end? How many times would she be forced to witness burial after burial? To be a ghost standing on the lip of an open grave? And though she didn’t quite fancy the idea of killing herself, especially if there was a chance she would fail without the right methods, the witch just needed to know there was a way _out_. To understand there was a fire escape, an exit sign in her periphery-- that there was a choice.

The air in the room suddenly turned frigid, the flames in the mantle flickering as darkness clung to the lines of Voldemort’s body. ‘So, she’s still thinking about it,’ a bitter thought, spiteful, his fingers digging, clenching, curling into the table’s edge. He desperately hoped that they had moved on past that thread of conversation, the dangerous thought— that, just perhaps, the girl had come to understand her position and was finally accepting of it. But yet, she felt the need to ruin the moment, the tentative peace they had arrived at. Hellfire eyes narrowed a fraction, jaw clenching as he considered how to appropriately react, rationality weighing the outcomes. Everything in him, in his core, his being, was singing to retaliate, to make her fear ever bringing up the taboo idea again. To make her understand that she couldn’t leave, to get it through her stubbornly thick head that she was in this for the long haul, that there was no escape. Not from him, not from the horcrux, not from any of it— he refused to allow it.

Harri blinked sheepishly at the heaviness in the air, his temper sparking on the boundaries of their bond. How his body seemed tense, rigid, the sharp definition of his jaw ticking. It was startling to see how quickly the pleasant mood of the room bled away, how rapidly it was to sour by his sharp vexation, his displeasure. The man at the desk was a Dark Lord, was Voldemort, a truth that she had apparently forgotten amidst their amicable conversation. ‘You did this,’ her conscience chastised, mentally berating her for being so casual and careless with her words. She knew it was an off-limit topic, had seen how he had reacted to the question in the past— yet she asked it anyways in a foolish bid of solace and reprieve from her anxieties. 

“I mean, I did it in the chamber with the diary. And Nagini mentioned that they could be destroyed,” she rushed out, tongue stumbling over the words in a desperate attempt to lessen the beginning edges of the storm of his fury, “I just figured I should know what to look out for and to avoid.”

And then the rolling clouds abruptly gave way, somehow less suffocating, less domineering. He spared a cutting glance to the serpent on the velvet lounge, a look that declared they would have a chat that was mostly ignored on the snake’s end. ‘Do not fault her for her curiosity,’ a gentle whisper reminded him, a shaky inhale of a breath as he attempted to calm and collect himself. It was only fitting for the nature of their discussion for her to ask about potential methods of destruction— after all, he had been so free with all other information. But still, the very idea, the very notion, of her being destroyed, accidentally or purposefully. No, he would ensure it would never happen— and it wasn’t as though he particularly trusted her with the knowledge either, not the way their relationship currently was.

He was about to respond, to deny her what she sought, when a sharp rap on the study’s double doors drew his attention. Irritation flared at being interrupted but he waved them open nonetheless, revealing his two most loyal standing in the frame. Wordlessly tilting his head in a bid for them to enter, Voldemort attempted to suppress the urge to command them to disappear. The pair had been banished to Diagon Alley in order to allow himself to bond with his horcrux, an excuse on his end to spend some prolonged time around the girl. Briefly, he considered why he had even needed one in the first place— she was his, in soul and in legal guardianship, so having her near him would be perfectly sensible. But there was an image to maintain. One of an aloof Dark Lord who was not besotted with a teenager, who did not attempt to bend the world to be with her, his previous enemy, the witch that once vanquished him. 

“What is it?” annoyance coloured his voice of its own admission, disgruntled that they had come back so soon— part of him had hoped the two would be absent for the rest of the day, at the very least.

“We have found something of interest, My Lord,” Barty replied, crossing the room with the newspaper clutched in his hands, bowing as he held it out for him to take.

Voldemort spared a glance to Bellatrix in the background, still hovering near the door and not missing the sharp looks she was sending the redhead. The older woman’s expression was pinched, jealousy blatant, and contorting her features in a rather unbecoming way. An itch in his chest, a giving tell of his thinning patience, of vexed exasperation at the sight— it would appear that dear Bella still wasn’t aware of her position. Though, he considered, it was fine for now as long as she didn’t outwardly act upon her envy. He mentally added it to the ongoing list of things that would need to be addressed at some point, already foreseeing a future discord between the two witches. 

Roughly snatching the proffered paper, he glanced down at the headline, frown deepening and scarlet eyes alight with hunger. This was where all of the rumours, the nasty bits of gossip, were coming from? ‘Interesting. So the Order has started their own paper,’ he mused, somehow entertained by the idea as he drank in the pastel blue striped cover. ‘ _The Quibbler_. What an odd choice of name.’

“Barty, please escort Harri to Narcissa. I believe it is time for her lessons,” he mused, attention fixated on the tabloid.

Harri gladly rose from the spot, muttering out an apology to the displaced snake but eager to finally stretch her numbing legs. And she would be lying if she said she wasn’t more than happy to escape before that temper, that storm, could start to brew again with a vengeance. Placing the book down, she spied the familiar magazine in his hands, ready to ask in confusion what he was possibly doing with _The Quibbler_ when she was cut off.

“Oh and Harri? I expect you to finish that by Sunday,” an absentminded order as he set aside the newspaper, a sadistic glee upon seeing her crestfallen expression.

Aggressively snatching the tome from the couch, she stamped down the urge to protest. It was thicker than her forearm, a solid few hundred pages, and she had barely made a dent in it. Resolutely tucking it in the crook of her elbow, refusing to look at him, a sour thought, ‘Tyrant.’

‘I heard that,’ his voice was whispered directly into her mind as she marched from the room, trying to find her maturity, her will, not to flip him off. Barty silently trailed after her shadow, the office doors closing behind them with a click, and the witch found herself morosely hoping that Draco was having a better day than hers. 

* * *

* * *

As it turned out, Draco Malfoy’s day was not any better than that of the redhead’s, having returned to Hogwarts only to find that it was a rather grim affair. The confusion was heavy in the air at the welcoming back feast, whispers commenting on Dumbledore’s absence and circulating speculations about what could have possibly happened. And the Slytherin boy, though he would be loathed to admit it aloud, found himself almost preferring the older wizard, with his obnoxiously coloured robes and half-moon glasses, to his sour-faced godfather. The man lacked any stage presence, the clipped monotone drawl doing very little to inspire excitement for the remainder of the year. 

He could feel for the potions master, of course— it was obvious that he hated being headmaster and was out of his element. But nonetheless, when the speech ended, the blond boy was all too relieved, too enthused, to have that form of torture be done. Though, the second they were released, a new form had begun in the way of his friends. They were scattered about, providing commentary on their holidays, when, somehow, the tide inevitably turned to focus on Harri Potter and the Dark Lord.

“I don’t know, it’s weird, isn’t it? Potter and the Dark Lord,” Marcus Flint had been the one to initiate the thread of discussion, elbows on the table, and leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner.

“It makes no sense. They have to have a connection, somehow,” Theodore Nott agreed, the opening floodgate that inspired the endless speculations amongst the pocket of Slytherins.

And how much Draco hated it. Hearing their drivel, their spouted nonsense— it made his blood pressure spike, the feast before him looking less and less appealing.

“Perhaps Potter is secretly the Dark Lord’s daughter? Or cousin?” Pansy piqued up, pouring herself a goblet of pumpkin juice as she let the theory settle, “After all, he did claim guardianship of her. Who would do that if they weren’t somehow related?”

Draco clenched his jaw at the rising voices, all eager to wildly comment on the redheaded girl’s appearance— what looked similar to their Lord and what didn’t, if it was possible or not, what it would mean for them. Of course, the Malfoy heir was equally in the dark as to the sudden change in plans for The Girl Who Lived, something he couldn’t even begin to fathom. But he was certain, more than a little, that they weren’t related. Not after the party, the way the man had watched her, had dressed her, the possessive wandering hands. Shoulders went taut as he pushed the peas about his plate, trying to block them out, to not lose his composure.

“I don’t think that’s quite it, either. I mean, we all saw how they were dancing together. That was most certainly not appropriate for familial relations,” a girl with ice blond hair and grey eyes sniffed improperly, Daphne putting forth her own opinion.

A sudden clap of hands down against the table, a dawning revelation as a brown-haired girl gasped scandalized, “You don’t think they could be—? But with Potter, of all people!”

Silence settled over the group, acid rising steadily in the back of Draco’s throat as he thought back to it, grimly considering the possibility. It was one that he had been trying to convince himself of otherwise, had tried to deny time and time again. But recollections of bruises against her skin in questionable places, how she had been paraded around in a dress far too revealing for anything appropriate for her age. The hunger in red eyes, the blush she had worn so prettily when he touched her body, her waist, her skin. How she had been brought up onto the dais, placed by his side for all to see. It was damning evidence, the odds more so stacked in favour of the notion than against, a welling anger, stomach tightening.

“I mean, if so, good for her— definitely can see the appeal,” Zabini leered, tone taking on a lecherous tease, a flash of white teeth against dark skin, “She’s definitely an attractive minx, I’ll give her that. I just wonder how she managed to seduce him, considering the whole enemy thing. Potter has to have some moves if she caught his attention. Draco, they’re staying with you, right? Heard anything freaky?”

“Shut it, Zabini,” he seethed softly, pale eyes flashing in a warning as the fork was set down aggressively.

Pale eyes critically regarded the boy across from him, an affronted amusement clear in dark eyes. Of course, Draco knew he was being baited— Blaise had that nasty habit, especially when he was bored. And that was the number one thing he absolutely detested about his so-called friend. The way he would twist and prod at an infected wound, would find someone’s weakness and exploit it with no remorse. How badly he wanted to leap across the table, to grab the wizard by the collar, to demand he never entertain such vile thoughts ever again, especially not about a girl who was being forced into this all. After all, he knew of Harri’s suffering— he had seen the look in her eyes, the crumpled face, the tears she refused to shed.

Draco roughly shrugged off the tentative hand of Pansy, ignoring her soft inquiries of concern. All attention was fixated on the smug Slytherin across from him, glaring at the calculating look entering the depths of those charcoal eyes. The atmosphere amongst the small pocket had grown tense, suffocating, others hesitant to chime in when faced with the confrontation between the two students

“Don’t worry about it, Parkinson. Draco here is just in a foul mood because the Dark Lord was man enough to make a move on his crush before he could,” Blaise commented, goading the blond further, an eyebrow raised in a taunt.

“And yet, which one of us was ‘man enough’ to take the dark mark, Zabini? Because I sure as hell don’t see it on your arm,” he snipped back, Draco’s lips pulling into a sneer as the amusement quickly slid from the other’s face.

The Malfoy heir pushed himself out from the table abruptly, swinging his legs over the sides of the bench and unable to stand the conversation any longer. Only distantly registering the cries for him to come back, the Slytherin swept from the Great Hall, eager to find some respite from their vile rumours, their poisoning speculations. And as he fled to the dungeons, seeking refuge in his dorm, Draco pondered if this was a sort of punishment on his Lord’s end— to have to listen to the drivel, the nonsense, while being equally as clueless. After all, how could he deny it when he wasn’t even aware of the truth? He had been explicitly instructed to come back to Hogwarts to report any whispers, anything of suspicion, to convince those who had yet to take the mark to do so. While it seemed easy enough at first, now it seemed impossible, a torment and agony meant just for him.

It wasn’t possible, was it? Harri and the Dark Lord together? Thin hands scrubbed over his face, cursing Zabini, Nott, his friends for even putting such an idea into his head.

* * *

* * *

Much to Harri’s relief, the rest of the week passed in a blur. Narcissa had seemed even more determined to teach her etiquette, claiming now that she was a certified Black it was all the more crucial, vital, important. But, apart from the heightened expectations, the kind-hearted woman hadn’t really changed. In fact, she was just as motherly, welcoming, and warm as always, a bright spot in her existence at the Manor.

Her time was being split more often as well. Most days, she found herself in the study with Voldemort for a few hours, a quiet affair that was becoming a strange, yet comfortable, part of her routine. He would pass the time doing administrative work while she read, both apparently content to bask in the other’s presence, to have some company while going about otherwise laborious chores. And truly, it was a thankless task reading the tome— the practical applications going over her head. After all, the Dark Lord wasn’t actually letting her use magic at this point, rendering the methods chapter useless. But nonetheless, she had finished the entire volume by Sunday, all too proud of herself for meeting his deadline. His praise and satisfaction had only served to stoke the embers of her triumph, a warmth elicited from his compliments that she would forever deny existing.

* * *

* * *

As it currently stood, the girl had found herself seated across a grim-faced potions master, onyx eyes regarding her critically, warily. He seemed to be just as excited as she was— neither thrilled or overjoyed at the prospect of being in the other’s head. The clock was insistently ticking away in the background, a sharp rhythm that punctuated the silence between the two, the minutes whittling away.

Things had gotten better between them, she considered, what with him trying to help her escape and healing her from time to time. Yet, despite the progress, she still felt nervous around her ex-professor, unsure, ready to be reprimanded over the smallest of slights. Despite him representing her old life, his sneers and glittering cold eyes bringing a sense of familiarity, the girl couldn’t say she was looking forward to seeing him every Sunday. But perhaps this was as good as a chance as any to get information, to perhaps see how the outside world was faring under the Dark Lord’s reign.

“How was the first week back?” a desperate question, an unspoken one hidden behind its polite casualness— did you see Hermione and Ron? 

Judging by the twitch in the corner of his mouth, Snape had easily ascertained her intent, the concealed meaning, choosing to indulge her for once, “It was satisfactory. Some students, however, were missing during the welcoming back speech.” 

A shaky sigh of relief yet of simultaneous disappointment at his answer. If her friends weren’t at Hogwarts, then she could easily guess what that implied— they had joined the Order and were being kept from the castle. It made sense and she was glad for it, thankful they were safe and far from the watchful gaze of the Death Eaters hidden amongst the school. After all, who knew how many were there at this point? How many professors, students, had an owed allegiance to Lord Voldemort— two already came to mind. But then she feared for her friends’ safety, for their recklessness, their bold move to join the resistance. It would only further put a target on their backs, incite Voldemort’s wrath if they were ever discovered. Absentmindedly, she chewed on her lower lip, mind glazing over.

“The Dark Lord has deemed it a necessity to develop your occlumency. In these lessons,” he suddenly intoned, catching her attention and drawing it back to him, “I will attempt to infiltrate your mind and you will attempt to resist.” 

Harri arched a brow in confusion, about to ask him how she was exactly supposed to do that, if there was a spell she needed to know, when a wand tip was suddenly pointed at her face. The entertainment parlour, in all of its gilded finery and ivory drapes, bled away, a throbbing headache as colours flashed before her eyes.

> Under the stairs, stuffed into a too-small space, dust hazily floated in from the sliding grate. Reaching for a Hogwarts letter amongst the endless swirling sea, clutching wildly and crying out in joy. Talking to a garden snake coiled under a bush— “ _Hello, I’m Harri.”_ , elated surprised when it had responded back— _“Hello.”_ Heart hammering, feet in too large sneakers thudding on blazing asphalt, her cousin and his friends hot on her heels. 

She panted as Malfoy Manor came back into view, eyes darting around wildly, a cooling layer of sweat above her brow. The girl fixed the potions professor in a dazed stare, barely hearing the words ‘Concentrate’ before being plunged back under the water, unable to even gulp in a greedy mouthful of air, to refill her lungs.

> A woman with coral lips pinched, vehemently spitting out—“I’m not your mother,” hands slapping away small greedy ones. A redheaded girl, barely tall enough to reach the stove, vainly trying to turn the bacon and ignoring the scalding splatters against bare skin. “Yer a wizard, Harri,”— a stormy night, a giant of a man, complete euphoria at being freed. Dumbledore at a bedside, grimacing at the offending taste of Berti Botts, sharing in a laugh. “You can come live with me, if you want,” a full moon in the sky, a grey-eyed man pulling a girl with a heart too full into a hug. A monster, skeletal, thin, a creature from the void appearing from a cauldron, demanding her blood to sate its appetite.

“Resist it,” a faint command to a girl suspended between the past and the present, head splitting and tears scalding tracks down waned cheeks.

> “Freak!” A wince, a sting, trying not to cry as a broken wrist was cradled to a chest. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, they hate it when you make a sound_. Barred windows, a magical floating car trying to pull them off. “Harri, dear, you look too thin! Eat!”, a kind voice, a spray of orange hair shoving a plate full towards her, a comforting squeeze on shoulders. Refuge from the cold with mugs of heated butterbeer, soothing and warm as it slid down chilled throats. A too-thin mattress, curled to one side, a hollow ache in her stomach as bolts slid shut. Blooming redness across her face, inflamed, cruel hands so clearly imprinted. Laughing as rocks skipped across a mirrored lake, disrupting ripples— “Oi, you’re cheating Potter!” Crimson eyes from the shadows, watching, calculating, refusing to leave her in peace. 

“Focus. Expel me from your mind,” a bodiless voice, tone almost uncharacteristically emotional, not quite pleading but something close to it.

> The headmaster raising his wand to her back, a flash of green. Skeletal hands a punishing pressure on her scar, the world exploding in pain. Carrying Hedwig into the night, heart hammering and encouraging the bird to fly far away— “I’ll kill that bloody thing if I see it again, you hear me girl!”. Diagon Alley, a burst of joy and chest airy, a wand in thin hands for the first time. Wind whipping about, broom climbing higher, higher, higher. “Look at me!”— alarmed blue eyes behind half-moon glasses. A boy from a diary, an ultimate betrayal, a glowing anagram in the air— I Am Lord Voldemort. The same boy at her neck, teeth sinking into the pulse point and refusing to let go. Flares of pleasure, a buoyancy, a face familiar but also not quite tilted back in ecstasy. “I have seen your heart, Harri Potter. I know it like the back of my hand, and it is mine.” Hellfire eyes, an unsettling truth, damning words that sealed her fate— “It’s all because you, yourself, are a—”

‘No!’ An inner scream of desperation at where the conversation was heading, the images suddenly distorting, warping, the entertainment parlour coming back with startling clarity. Harri slumped forwards in her chair, a pair of stabilising hands shooting out to grasp at her shoulders, to keep her from tumbling onto the floor. Everything about her ached— her teeth, her bones, her mind, raw and exposed. And she took a second to try to recover, to piece together the scattered remnants of her composure, chest heaving with exertion.

The girl finally uprighted herself, breaths flighty and shaky, refusing to even out into a more comfortable tempo. She belatedly realised she was twitching, physical tremors that relayed how unstable she felt inside. ‘That completely sucked,’ a cheeky thought that lacked most of its bite, a hand running through her hair and grimacing at how damp the strands were. There was the vaguest sense that she needed to retch but her body felt too exhausted, too drained, to even summon forth the energy to do such a thing.

Snape took a moment to consider the girl before him, allowing her reprieve, a chance of respite. Though he tried to keep it from showing so clearly on his face, he felt rattled— perhaps as much as she did. When his Lord had suggested abuse from her muggle relatives, he hadn’t considered to what extent. But now? Now, no small sliver of him sang for blood, for retribution on her behalf. The potions professor had tried to prepare himself to go into her mind all day, a naive version of himself praying it would just be teen angst. However, what he had just witnessed, had been an unwelcome spectator to, was something that he believed he could never have been adequately fortified against. For a lack of a better word, Harri Potter was a complete mess— her mind chaotic, torn asunder, residual trauma rampant.

“Good, Potter,” he stated slowly after a few moments of pause, rising from his chair and recognising that his own legs were unsteady, “You managed to repel me once but I believe that it is enough for tonight. I might suggest you focus on daily mediation before our session next week.”

He wanted to comfort her, to let her know that it would get easier in the end. But the man found himself unable to, the words not coming to mind, tongue a deadened thing in his mouth. After all, what could he say at this point? How could he claim it would get effortless, painless, when her mind was so disorderly, torn, and burdened? Instead, Snape had fled from the room, leaving behind the shuddering redhead coated in sweat and residual traces of tears in search of his Lord.

* * *

* * *

“My Lord, I have come to report that we have finished our first lesson for the night,” Severus reported as evenly as he could, the fire in the mantle doing very little to chase the chills from his frame.

The red-eyed man had been seated in one of the armchairs, a book cradled between long fingers and the serpent curled at his feet. All in all, it was a calm scene, a quiet one— nothing like what just had occurred in the room down the stairs. A part of Snape almost felt envious that the Dark Lord found some calm, and was immensely enjoying a rather pleasant evening. And how he would wish he could have found the same, could forget the shivering witch and the destructive memories.

Voldemort glanced up from the novel he had been reading, a glass of brandy being nourished in his hand, a contemplative sip as he eyed the obviously afflicted headmaster, “Ah, I see. And how did she do?”

“Satisfactory. She had managed to repel my presence once,” the dark-haired man responded carefully, trying to find the right words to describe the experience, “Though, if I must admit, I was quite taken back. Her mind is rather unbalanced.”

The book snapped closed, crimson eyes narrowing a fraction. There was a truth to Severus Snape, he had come to learn in the years following the man’s service— and that was there were very few things that seemed to shake the wizard. Or, at least, ones that he admitted to. But nonetheless, seeing the waned face, the minute quivers, set him on edge. Particularly as it meant that his horcrux was somehow involved.

“Show me, Severus,” he was rising from the chair, draining the last drops of brandy and tossing the novel down into the space where he once occupied.

“My Lord, I feel it prudent to warn you that they are disturbing,” Snape grappled, torn between betraying the girl’s trust in him but also wishing not to defy his Lord— and, he figured, if anyone would take action upon seeing the memories, it would be him. 

“ _Show_ _me_ ,” Voldemort repeated for a final time, tone commanding, forceful, unrelenting before he was plunging into the potion master’s mindscape.


	48. "I Used To Think You Were The Only Monster"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all of my lovely readers! Here is the next chapter-- I have quite some things in store for the one after this and I am so so excited to post it for you guys! But for now, take this one-- there's some important scenes in here that mark a turning point for Harri and Voldemort's relationship that I hope you will all love! 💕
> 
> As usual, I just want to give you all a shout-out for being so amazing and just so dedicated to this fic! You guys seriously make writing worth and I can't even tell you how elated I am to have such kind people reading along 💕 Thank you for every single bookmark, kudos, and comment! 
> 
> Enjoy! 💕

* * *

* * *

“And the centaur uprisings are still ongoing in the North,” Nott droned on, a dull even sound as he read from the report, the words carrying in the silence of the room.

It made her want to scream, to tear the auburn hair from her head, to roll her eyes and groan at the tedious thread of conversation. A part of her almost desperately wished for one of Fred and George’s inventions, a wildfire whiz-bang or a thunder cracker to liven up the atmosphere— or, at the very least, some Peruvian instant darkness powder so she could slip out unnoticed. Harri had been summoned to one of the weekly meetings, an event that Voldemort had deemed it a necessity to attend. Why was beyond her comprehension— it wasn’t as though she agreed with his philosophies, had taken the mark, and bent the knee in servitude.

But Harri supposed this was his perverted way of showing her off to his acolytes, a spectacle for his followers to play witness to. The triumph in having The Girl Who Lived by his side, seduced away from the light through his power, his will, his magic. And, quite truthfully, it irked the girl whenever she reflected on it. After all, she had never formally joined him, hadn’t willingly flocked to the Dark Lord of her own accord, despite whatever image he was trying to sell.

All things considered though, it was best to allow him that small win, the minuscule victory. Truly, what was the harm in sitting at his side when it put the man in a relatively good mood for the rest of the day? And so Harri had acquiesced, settled in the lesser throne, and tried her best to not look bored out of her skull. But as the grandfather clock chimed from somewhere in the manor, an echo that signaled the end of the 2nd hour since the meeting had begun, such resolve was quickly waning. A good portion of the time had been passed in idle observation of the gathered Death Eaters, each one in stark black robes. The girl had made a game out of trying to discern faces and place names while picking the lint off the emerald silk folds of her dress— a valiant effort for entertainment.

Nagini coiled about thin shoulders, as though sensing the girl’s increasing impatience, an expanse of cool muscle that was only distantly registered. On the whole, the disciples of Lord Voldemort were determined to ignore the redhead— stubborn blinders on their periphery that kept their eyes off of her and faces schooled into masks of neutrality. Well, that was apart from two— Bellatrix Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback. But considering her history with the pair, it made sense as to why they weren’t afraid to meet the glares of a curse green gaze. In fact, they almost seemed to revel in her distaste, her anger, choosing to leer whenever she caught their eye. And how it served to only worsen the irritation.

“Magorian has assured us that-,” Harri couldn’t take it any longer, the precarious cords of her tolerance, her patience, dangerously twisting and fraying. There was an itch in her chest, a restlessness at being forced to remain seated for so long, a keening cry for freedom. The chair was pushed out from the table, a screech of wooden feet that drew the attention of those gathered. Nott paused in the report, a frown at the abrupt interruption.

Crimson eyes drifted over curiously at the motion, face impassive as he considered the girl and the silent plea in her expression. The ever so slightest lift in the left corner of his mouth, the vaguest sense of fond amusement on the edges of their bond before a wave of his hand in permittance. She blinked once at his reaction, half-expecting to be commanded to sit back down, to remain in her seat until the gathering was completed. But Harri accepted the gift nonetheless, turning on her heels as the heavy weight of stares settled over thin shoulders. In the background, she heard his bid to continue, and, along with it, the hesitant withdrawal of their scrutiny. 

The girl found herself drifting about the perimeter of the meeting room, content at just being able to stretch her stiff legs. The snake was curled about her torso, triangular head resting on the hollow of a collarbone and forked tongue curiously flicking over the silver mark— a lingering reminder of canines sunk too deep, of the greed of a Dark Lord intent on consuming her.

 _“Are the meetings always this long?”_ she complained to the serpent, ignoring the stifled attempts of a few hitched breaths, the snap of a couple of heads turning.

Apparently, despite them all being aware that she shared their Lord’s language, they still felt the need to overreact whenever she chose to use it. ‘Can you blame them though?’ Parseltongue was jarring, especially when it came from a teenage girl— so no, she couldn’t fault them for being caught off-guard. And frankly, it was turning into a bad habit, the sibilant sounds becoming easier to summon, her tongue sometimes lapsing without even being aware of it. ‘That’s what happens when all you have for company is a snake and Lord Voldemort,’ a pointed and spiteful thought that lacked most of its bite. While the witch had avoided using the ability in the past, she couldn’t deny its convenience as of late— after all, it allowed for a private conversation to be held even in public. 

_“Sometimes even longer,”_ Nagini responded idly, a sage nod of a triangular head.

 _“Lovely,”_ she groaned in return, wincing at the ever so slight constriction of the snake’s muscle, _“why do I even have to be here?”_

A sly tone and the stuttering hiss that Harri had come to recognise as a laugh, _“He likes having you near him.”_

“Severus’s report has come back, My Lord,” Lucius suddenly drawled, attention in the room fixed on him and a superior note in the tone, “Muggleborn students currently make up 35% of the Hogwarts student body. You will be pleased to know that actions are already being set into place to correct this oversight.”

Harri gritted her teeth at the condescending and pompous intonations. ‘Correct the oversight?’ It sent off alarms, grated against her conscience, made her stomach clench painfully. Images came to mind of Hermione, weary and exhausted after being dragged off the train, of the group of students coming through the portrait in the early morning hours, dismayed with bloodshot gazes. To her, it made no sense— why were muggle-born students being targeted? Surely they had the same right, the same entitlement, as any pure-blood, or half-blood for that matter, to Hogwarts? To access their birthright, their abilities?

“What do you mean,” she couldn’t quite help herself from whirling around, words dripping with venom and ignoring the incredulous stares sliding over to her, “ by ‘correct the oversight’?”

Lucius gaped at her, surprised by the sudden address, the lack of formality the witch was showing him. Pale eyes drifted over to his Lord in uncertainty, half-hoping he would reprimand her for the interruption, for speaking out of turn. A bitter frown upon seeing the man had no intentions of doing such— only thinly-veiled curiosity and contemplation in scarlet eyes, the lines of his body relaxed in the throne as the redheaded witch stalked closer towards them.

“Only that muggle-born students will be removed and placed in a separate learning institution,” there was a belittling tone in the response, only hastily adding on a title when a sharp burst of heat erupted in his mark as a silent warning, “My Lady.”

“And why can’t they just attend Hogwarts?” vitriol was in her voice, heels clicking against the marble tile as she made her way back to the throne, fingers gripping its edges as the look of distaste in the blond’s eyes was returned tenfold.

“Miss Potter, I don’t think—,” Malfoy trailed off, looking helplessly over to his Lord for any sign of what to do, of how he should address the girl without inspiring the man’s ire.

“It’s quite alright, Lucius,” Voldemort arched a brow at the pure-blood’s hesitation. And though his face remained one of impassivity, there was mirth, delight, sparking in a glowing gaze, “Feel free to defend your position. Harri can handle it.”

The Malfoy head regarded the Dark Lord in suspicion, taking it as a good as any blessing to continue as his full attention snapped back to the vexed green-eyed girl, “Muggle-borns are known to adjust more slowly than their peers, often hindering the class as a whole. It would be in the best interest of everyone to have them separated out.”

Fingers tightened around the throne’s backing, knuckles bleeding white, “Even if that’s true, it would be because they aren’t introduced to magic until they are 11! They are given their letters and thrown into the wizarding community without a transitional period. It isn’t their fault for adjusting slowly!”

Voldemort observed his horcrux, eyes flitting down to the tension in paling knuckles, the fire lending the gaze a smolder. True, he had been surprised when she had first spoken up, that she was willing to engage in conversation with his acolytes— but how alluring he found her at this very second. There was something beautiful in the way she let herself be consumed by fury, displeasure, the way her eyes narrowed and her chest swelled. And he found that, while he detested when such feelings were directed towards him, seeing the witch act this way to those lesser, those underneath her, was thrilling. A long leg crossed over another as the man leaned back into the throne, attention rapt on their interaction and having no intention of stepping in.

“And yet, despite starting their formal education at the same time as everyone else, they are slow to learn. It has been proven that their cores are weaker, more prone to fading into adulthood, and, eventually, becoming squibs. It is a waste of time and resources to spend teaching those who may not be able to contribute,” Lucius argued, a vein jumping in the planes of his forehead at her attempts to find fault in the logic in front of his Lord.

“You say that but one of the best witches of my year is a muggle-born. Her grades are better than most other pure, or half, bloods at the school. Are you saying that she shouldn’t be taught? That it’s a wasted effort?” she sniped back readily, reaching up to remove Nagini from her shoulders and guiding the serpent down into her empty seat.

“And while we are on this topic, why wait until 11 to introduce them to the wizarding world? Most already have tutors before their first year and have been learning magic since they could walk,” the redheaded witch bit out, something in her itching, rearing, for the pretentious man to continue to fight with her.

“But following your logic, I guess tutoring would be classified as a waste of time as well,” she sneered, not missing how Narcissa’s hand shot out to gently grip her husband’s forearm in caution, “For example, I know your own son has been privately taught. Yet, how many times have I duelled him and won?”

A quick apologetic glance to the blonde woman, praying that she didn’t take any offense, a cool relief upon seeing there was none. Then resentful eyes flickered back to the target of her ire, her anger. It was an instinctive reaction, one she couldn’t quite help, as sparks danced between the crevices and dips of delicate fingers, an electrifying taste, sharp and acidic on her tongue. The drivel he was spouting, the nonsense he believed, set her on edge, made her want to smash that ideology to pieces, to strip him of that faith.

“In your view, those who were raised in the muggle world are incompetent and substandard,” her voice had dropped just an octave in volume, being urged on by the alarming shade of purple in the pureblood’s face, his pinched expression, “Would you say the same applies to me as well?”

“What do you mean, My Lady?” Lucius grit out, shrugging his wife’s hand off of him, the idea of reaching for his wand a tempting one— and he might have acted on it if the Dark Lord hadn’t been right there, hadn’t held the wisp of a girl in such regard.

“That I’m inferior? After all, I was raised in the muggle world,” a quiet challenge, one that begged him to answer incorrectly, to see what would happen if he agreed.

Voldemort watched in fascination, unable to tear his eyes away from the witch holding her ground. It was all too tempting of a sight, too mesmerizing to do otherwise. And though he had always considered her beautiful, always held an aesthetic appreciation for his horcrux, he found himself admitting that she was radiant at this very moment. The righteous fury, how he could feel her conviction through their bond, the flares of her magic calling out to him. An image of a crown, a queen, an empress came to mind and he found himself leaning into it. There was something so alive about her, intoxicating, a pull that sang to only him— it was truly glorious. And how badly did he want to give in to the allure, the siren’s call, to devour her words, her fire, her magic. To assimilate, become one, to keep her to himself and away from the unworthy eyes currently cast upon her. The familiar sparks of greed, a smirk, and a sharp ravenous thought, ‘You are far from inferior.’

“I never said that, My Lady,” Lucius tried for reason, to find a truce before he could lose his temper, and slipping composure, “After all, you are a special case. Not everyone is afforded the chance to be personally taught by Albus Dumbledore.”

The anger ebbed away, the uncomfortable coldness of confusion replacing it. Brows knitted together, trying to understand his meaning. ‘Taught by Dumbledore?’ Recollections of her interactions with the headmaster came to mind, trying to understand where Lucius’s assessment was coming from. True, the older wizard did call her into his office more than once— but that was mainly to check in on her, to see how she was faring mentally, emotionally. And the more she thought back to it, the more ascertained she was that nothing about their interactions could be labelled as being educational in nature.

Pardon?” she echoed in a stupor, blinking slowly at the blond man.

“You were taught by Dumbledore, were you not? That he visited you several times prior to your Hogwarts letter?” he pressed onwards, a pale brow arched in mild surprise at her lack of comprehension.

‘Dumbledore visited me? When?’ her thoughts were a swirl of bewilderment. Surely if the man had been at Privet Drive, she would have known about it— but yet, there was no recollection of the bearded wizard in her childhood memories. Green gaze drifted over to Voldemort imploringly, begging him for an explanation, for reason and enlightenment. An equally puzzled gaze met hers, contemplation alight in their scarlet depths as fingers interlaced to a steeple.

“When the Ministry discovered that you had been left in the muggle world, it naturally sparked outrage,” the Dark Lord explained tentatively, eyes searching his horcrux’s for any sign of awareness, “After all, leaving the Chosen One in a world not of their own was, by many’s accounts, an act of political sabotage. To appease the general public, Dumbledore had agreed to yearly visits in order to mentor you and ensure that you would be well-adjusted upon your Hogwarts arrival.”

The hands dropped from their bruising grip on the throne’s carved back, her tongue fumbling to work to make the words coherent, and only managing out a choked, “What?”

A dangerous glint in Voldemort’s gaze, apprehensive darkness unfurling in the cavity of his chest, “Harri, when did you first see Dumbledore?”

“I-,” the girl trailed off, brows knitting together as her mind swam at the turn of the conversation, “My first year, at the welcoming speech. But I didn’t actually talk to him in person until he visited me in the infirmary.”

His jaw ticked, ignoring the outraged whispers among those seated at the table, drinking in her adrift expression, the disorientation that made her eyes glaze over. It confirmed it all— the great Albus Dumbledore had kept her ignorant, left her stranded without any ties to a world that was indebted to her. And he had a pretty clear idea as to why. Who else would be easier to control than someone who was young, unknowing, weak? ‘The manipulative old fool, well played,’ a scathing thought, studying the way her chest was rising and falling too rapidly, the bright bursts of her panic already seeping through their connection.

“I knew it! His sanity truly was slipping,” Mulciber suddenly shouted from down the table, a passionate jeer that earned a few murmurs of support, “And I say good riddance— his death was the best thing to happen to the wizarding world.”

A glare, one that spoke of warning and to hold his loose tongue, was shot towards the Death Eater as Voldemort abruptly rose out of the throne. And even though he could plainly see the look of pure unfiltered horror in those emerald eyes, he felt it more viscerally through the bond. Her heart skipping a rhythmic beat, the disquiet of her mind, the one word that stuck out amongst the chaos of the gale— ‘monster’. A hand subconsciously lifted, extended for her to take, a silent plea to listen and not to react first.

But she was already fleeing from the room, the heavy doors thrown wide in her rush to leave and closing with a resounding click.

* * *

* * *

The Dark Lord apparated in the study a second after, having abandoned the meeting and already knowing where she was instinctively heading, “Harri.” 

The girl refused to speak, the words unwilling to formulate, stuck in her throat, and dying before her tongue could fumble them out. ‘He killed him,’ it was a circling persistent idea, one that conjured up images of a snake-faced man and hellfire eyes—of a wraith emerging from a spewing cauldron, of sharpened teeth and slitted pupils, of a creature dripping in shadows and vile magic. And that very same devil was on her heels, chasing after her into the gilded cage of a bedroom. Everything seemed too constricting, too tight, her skin stretched too far, the clothes suddenly a suffocating weight. Desperately, she wondered where that exit sign was, the fire escape, the way out— ‘You’re a fool for thinking there even is one,’ supplied a spiteful thought.

Though the room was, by no regards, small, it may as well have been a broom closet, a bubble, the man closing the door behind them taking up too much of its space. His aura was a pollution, his presence a toxicity that thinned the air and robbed the oxygen. The pulse in her veins was a punishing tempo that made the world about her tilt, and for the clarity in her gaze to diminish. ‘Dumbledore’s dead,’ a shaky hand running roughly through long auburn strands, shuddering breaths, stomach clenching.

Voldemort narrowed his gaze a fraction watching her attempts to process, vowing to make Mulciber pay for the slipup. He had been planning on telling her eventually, of course he did— after all, it would have been impossible to keep it a secret for all of eternity. But that was for the future, far into it, when their relationship wasn’t as rocky, was more steady. Not now. Not when they’ve only just reached a tentative sort of peace. His attention fixated on the hand combing through her hair, the ribbon holding his insignia thrown forcefully against the wall, a crumpled heap of velvet against the baseboard. Delicate fingers were clutching the hollow of her throat, acting as though it had been burnt, and— there it was, flashes of himself from the graveyard. A gruesome sight of a demon, a beast, twisted and contorted, her own personal evil. It made his jaw clench, fingers twitching at his side as an insatiable itch thrived in the empty spaces between his ribs. ‘Stop thinking of me like that.’

“Harri-,” he tried again, a vain attempt to ease the tension from his jaw, the shoulders, to stifle the urge to lash out, to forcefully make her see he wasn’t the boogeyman of the past.

“You killed him,” her words were flat and accusing as the petite frame whirled around, green eyes flashing.

There was the briefest thought to deny it, to say he hadn’t, to obliviate the conversation from her mind— it certainly would have been easier, “I did.”

“Why?!” somehow, hearing it from his own lips, the casual admittance, made it all the more damning, an undeniable and irrefutable truth. 

“Why?” the Dark Lord echoed in confusion, taking a step closer towards her, then another, “He was trying to murder you, to harm what is mine.”

And somehow, that’s what it always came back to— her inciting death and destruction by simply breathing, by just existing. Everyone around her died or suffered as a result of their connection to her, a cursed relationship. Though she understood the headmaster had tried to kill her in cold blood, had seen that green as a sickening afterimage behind closed lids every night, it still made her want to retch. An overwhelming amount of guilt, of despair, coursed through her knowing that Voldemort had acted on her behalf— had carried out a karmic ‘justice’ she didn’t even want in the first place.

“He was just scared!” Harri grappled for a reason to explain the headmaster’s actions, some part of her refusing to admit that the man would have willingly attempted such drastic actions if he had another choice— or if he saw another way out.

Scarlet eyes widened for the briefest of a second, rendered speechless by her defense of Albus, before narrowing and taking another step closer. The temperature in the chambers had abruptly dropped, a swirl of frigid air that seemed to go unheeded by either of the pair. His gaze flitted across the crumpled expression, the hopelessness, the desperation. ‘She truly is defending a man that tried to destroy her,’ it was a perplexing thought, a bewildering one, and he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. The girl refused to flinch when he moved closer, a misplaced envy blooming and writhing about his rationality at the show of her steadfast faithfulness. Severus’s assessment suddenly came back to him— “Her loyalty, once earned, is unshakeable”— and how it rendered him famished. Craving, longing, lusting, aching to be the one to earn that devotion, that unwavering commitment, and worship.

“So fear justifies murder, Harri,” he bit out scornfully, long strides pausing only when he stood an arm’s length from his horcrux, unbridled frustration sparking the crimson flames to life in his gaze.

“Well, it has for you,” she snapped back, unable to help herself in the face of his hypocrisy, “Or have you forgotten that you were the one who tried to kill a baby all because of some stupid prophecy?!”

‘Have some patience, she’s only lashing out in grief,’ a small voice whispered, drowned out in the wake of his disbelief, his fury. She dared to try to turn this back on him, to make it somehow his fault that Dumbledore had betrayed her? His teeth nearly cracked from the pressure in which they were ground, a muscle ticking in his jaw, fingers clenching and unclenching at his side. There was an urge to be cruel, to be vicious, to torment and subdue her— that vile seed in him, the darkest part to his personality, singing to make her understand, to force her to hold that silver tongue before it incited irreversible damage

“Oh please, Harri, save me the moral platitudes,” he seethed, lips curling into a sneer as he towered over her, “Do not act so naive. It shouldn’t surprise you that I killed him, not after what he has all done. You can not tell me you truly believed the lie about him missing— if you did, you are either an imbecilic child or willfully ignorant.”

It was as though the light had been extinguished, the switch to her anger being abruptly flipped off. Because, as much as it pained her to face the truth, he was right— she had seen the signs, had the sneaking suspicion this entire time but chose to suppress it all in favour of faith. The fact that the Dark Mark had appeared over the Astronomy Tower, the mysterious radio silence on the headmaster’s end. The wand in his grasp that always looked a touch too gut-wrenchingly familiar, unable to exactly place where she had seen it before. Harri had observed it all, purposefully put on a pair of blinders, and for what exactly? To hold onto the hope that someone was still out there, strong enough to oppose him? To save her? That another person could shoulder the burden of defying him? Could do the one thing that she had no strength for? And with Dumbledore gone, it meant that the responsibility was solely hers now— a terrifying and weighty conclusion to come to. And how it made her want to retch, to throw up.

The image of the Dark Lord began to blur, to distort and warp as a green gaze started to mist over, distantly aware of hyperventilation setting in when the edges of her surroundings dimmed. True, she and the headmaster had had some rough patches— but that didn’t mean she wished death upon him. Not to the man who had brought her sweets in the infirmary, had given the warmest welcoming back speeches, had been a constant friendly presence in her first few years at Hogwarts. Had made her feel like she belonged, welcomed her with wide arms, and invitations for tea. Not to the man who had gifted her the very first Christmas present within her entire 11-year existence— an invisibility cloak, a memento of her father— or who had passed the time with her in front of the Mirror of Erised. Even if that hospitality had faded in the most recent years, that grandfatherly affection, that kindness, Harri just knew she could never pray for an ill fate to befall him. It was a complicated relationship, a bittersweet one, that symbolised some of the best, and worst, years of her life. And knowing that it was all gone, the wizard who had been such an integral part of her young life, left a hollow ache— a nasty case of survivor’s guilt.

“What has he ever done to inspire such loyalty, anyways? What hold does he have over you?” the Dark Lord pressed onward, both enjoying yet somehow hating the look of defeat on the girl’s face, the wet sheen in owlish eyes, “Because, from where I stand, he has done nothing to earn your concern.”

Her mind turned over, trying to find a suitable answer, one to protest he was wrong— but she couldn’t. The tongue was too heavy in her mouth, refusing to work, a burn in her throat that reminded her of when she drank water too quickly or swallowed a larger than normal bite. There wasn’t a convincing enough response, an answer that would make him see reason, to understand what she was feeling. And, as recollections of time spent at Dumbledore’s side flashed by in a dizzying blur, there was some truth in the reasoning— after all, it was the headmaster who had always requested things of her, who always held the vital bits of information and only doled them out as a reward for good behaviour, who denied her requests to be spared from the Dursleys time and time again. So why was she feeling such a gaping ache of loss? It was illogical, irrational, only serving to heighten her anxiety and the pangs of grief.

“There would have been countless wizarding families that would have jumped at the chance to foster you, the famous Girl Who Lived. But instead, he purposefully concealed your heritage, left a child not even 2 years old on a doorstep with nothing but a letter for justification. He didn’t even give a damn enough to carry you inside,” he hissed out, fingers twitching at his side, an impulse to grab her, shake her, make her see the truth even if it was unbearable— that spiteful jealousy, that covetous envy at her misplaced loyalties refusing to abate.

Her heart twisted in her chest, thorns wrapped and sunk in too deeply that tore the muscle with every beat. There was a warmth on her cheeks as tears slid down, a scorching tacky path, an auburn head stubbornly turning from the weight of his scrutiny. Suddenly, the coldness of the room was a welcomed sensation, a numbing chill that provided some respite. Those painfully honest words lashed at her skin, barbs in the inflections that stripped the flesh from bone, and left it exposed for all to see. It made her feel raw, off-balanced, off-kilter. ‘He’s right.’ After all, who leaves a baby alone in the middle of the night— a heated blanket and a hastily written letter her only earthly possessions? Yet, no small part of her wanted him to shut up, to cease his cruelty, to stop tainting the few precious memories she had with blasphemous truths.

Harri roughly shoved past him in an attempt to flee from his poison, from his toxic and contaminating malice. It was an instinct for her feet to carry her away, to seek refuge elsewhere, to hide the pain and cope with grief like she always had done— by herself and locked away.

“He was raising you for slaughter this entire time,” Voldemort refused to relent, hand darting out in a bruising grip to grasp his horcrux’s forearm when she tried to leave, “He never once trained you and yet he expected you to rise up against me? To fight me?”

A sharp yank backward, a hand on a delicate shoulder that aggressively spun her around, crimson eyes greedily drinking it all in— the shattered expression, the quiver of her lower lip, the brows drawn together, begging for him to finish. But he couldn’t— the will to remain quiet, to let her continue living in the disillusioned fantasy gone. Evaporated. And he considered why, exactly, that was. Why was there such a need to make her see the facts? In the end, it wasn’t as though it personally affected him if she continued to hold onto the pretense that Dumbledore had actually cared for her, had looked at her as being more than fodder, than a game piece.

Unbidden images of himself at Wool’s, the excitement and elation at being told he was a wizard— only to receive a look of immediate distrust once he was told he was too different. That speaking to snakes was enough to isolate him, to shove him on the periphery, to mark him as a freak, and an oddity. The same suspicious glares that followed him throughout his years at Hogwarts, an orphan just wanting, craving, to prove himself. To earn the adoration and the kindness of the professor that had liberated him from a depressing fate, a pathetic end— only to be constantly rejected, time and time again.

“If you had, by some miracle, defeated me, make no mistake— he would have killed you in the end,” there was desperation underlying the savageness, the brutality, fingers tightening about a fragile wrist, “Only a fool would deny that it’s easier to control a dead martyr than a living hero. And with you, his sins would have disappeared as well. No one could find out how little he had done to prepare you, to help you.”

“Stop it,” she finally whispered, voice meek, shoulders trembling as bile rose in the back of her throat. 

Everything seemed too distant, too blurred, too muddled. It felt like a lie, her entire existence a facade, a mask, orchestrated by those around her. Constantly pulled in one direction or the other by men with too much power. And there was a nagging thought, one that made her stomach lurch, a sob to tear out of her throat of its own accord— ‘Had any of it been real?’. Had those smiles, those conversations, those visits held any semblance of truth? Or had they all been faked? Things done in order to get her to trust him, to force her guard down, to cultivate a fierce loyalty. Had the headmaster felt anything for her or was all he saw a political tool, a vital piece to his game of chess? It was a crushing realization to come to, a betrayal in the way of an unwitting wish that Dumbledore held some of Voldemort’s honesty. At least, when the Dark Lord had been wanting to kill her, he was explicit and transparent about it— not hiding behind lemon drops and tea with too many sugar cubes.

Harri was abruptly pulled into him, the lines of his body firm as arms caged themselves about her waist. And how she hated herself for relaxing into the hold, for not resisting or protesting. As she shamelessly clung to the front of his shirt, allowing tears to dampen the starched material, the girl couldn’t bring herself to push him away. A scent, something comforting in nature, flooded her senses— the smell of petrichor, of the first rainfall hitting the parched earth, of sweet smoke, curls and wisps in the winter night. It made her feel safe, a condemning single word coming to mind— ‘Home’. The hand that was rubbing idle circles into the top knob of her spine, the chin resting atop her crown, all of it was too distracting. The sensations cruelly constricted around her heart, doing little to lessen the nausea, to fight off the strong pulls of guilt. She was meant to be mourning the death of the headmaster and was, instead, finding solace in his murderer’s arms.

“Dumbledore never gave a damn about you, Harri,” his words were a whisper, the possessive hold constraining, “But I do. You are mine— borne from my magic to forever protect and to hold.”

She grit her teeth, burying her face into the expanse of his chest and trying to ignore the pangs, the unwelcomed flutters following his admission. Though the words should have been comforting to hear, the message, the threat of them, was less than innocent— it all came down to the fact she was still his. A container for his soul, irrevocably tied to him. Everything felt like a battle, an unkind game of tug and war, too many emotions, too many thoughts trying to make themselves fit. Too much, yet too little. Too bright yet too dull.

“Get out,” the girl whispered venomously into the collared shirt, shaking hands reaching up and firmly pushing him away to stop the overwhelming sensations that rendered her mind hazy, “Get the hell out.

Voldemort stumbled back, not entirely too surprised at her rejection as he considered the tears, the blatant conflict worn so openly on her face. Crimson eyes trailed after her as the redhead marched determinedly to the bathroom, slamming and locking it behind her. Though they both knew a door wouldn’t keep him out, he considered it was best to let her have this sham of freedom— “She enjoys her autonomy more than others,” a potion master’s cautioning. Clenching his jaw, the man stared down at an open palm, feeling the phantom heat of a girl in his grasp. A lingering reminder of how close he had been.

The Dark Lord swept from the gilded finery of the bedroom.

* * *

* * *

At some point, she had fallen asleep on the bathroom tile, the throes of the dreams uneasy, restless. No matter how hard the girl had tried to summon pleasant images, it kept all reverting back to the same thing— flashes of green, a sickening light show. Dumbledore, face decayed and flesh falling from the hollow gaunt of his cheeks, a sense of sickness overcoming her at the gruesome sight. A lipless mouth, ‘For the greater good,’ the twinkle long gone in a milky gaze, wand raised, a corkscrew of vivid spellfire.

Harri jolted awake, cooling sweat clinging to her like a second skin, spine stiff and heart hammering. A shaky groan tore from her throat, eyes stinging from the past hours spent crying. Apparently, even her dreams felt the need to torture her, to bring about the face of her guilt into full view, to goad and prod at her conscience. A trembling hand reached up to scrub over a waned face, unsteadily rising to her feet and allowing herself to be carried away on instinct. The witch wasn’t quite sure as to why she sought out the study— perhaps a part of her just wanted a change of scenery, a physical way to leave behind the nightmares. After all, it was her routine at school, often passing the hours in the common room until morning, finding it preferable to a dark bedroom.

Voldemort had been seated in one of the armchairs as she sheepishly opened the door, frowning at his relaxed stance. The fireplace had been lit, a decanter of scotch on the table between the two chairs and a crystalware glass hung loosely in his grip. He lifted the edge to his mouth, taking a contemplative sip as the two regarded each other for a second in silence— crimson and emerald stares passively, warily, taking in the other. Her nightmares were what had roused him, the bleedthrough of the bond increasing in the wake of her emotional distress. And, if someone were to guess that he was secretly hoping, anticipating, that she would come to the study in search of respite— then they might be correct. In the background was the crackling of the fire, sharp pops to punctate the hush, attention fixated on the way she had begun to chew on her lower lip. There was a conflict warring in her eyes that relayed the inner dilemma— she didn’t want to go back to the bedroom but she wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to be in his company either. ‘Better choose, little one,’ a mirthless thought, slightly bitter that his horcrux was apparently still this disinclined towards him— warranted, he knew, but still a difficult thing to swallow nonetheless.

A smirk that he tried to hide behind the glass as she moved, hesitantly, to the opposite chair, falling down into it with a huff. On his periphery, a surge of pleasure coursed through him at seeing her get comfortable, drawing her knees up to her chest and locking her arms around them. While under most circumstances, he may have frowned at bare feet being placed on the furniture, would berate her for a lack of manners, he considered he could let it slide— especially so after the disaster in the bedroom. It was a relief just to see her back beside him, that she was, begrudgingly, turning to him for late-night company.

“Are you always up this late?” a quiet mumble from her with the slightest hint of resentment, gaze fixed firmly on the flames dancing in the mantle.

“Usually, yes,” he idly responded, swirling the glass and unable to quite help the teasing smirk, “But someone’s bleedthrough was particularly distracting tonight.”

Harri winced at his accusation, somehow feeling both guilty yet vindictive that she kept him from sleeping as well, “Sorry.”

They lapsed back into a tranquil quiet, both occupied with their own thoughts and content to just sit in the shadows next to one another. It was transforming into an alarming habit, she recognised, one that should have never even formed in the first place— it was becoming more and more comfortable to be near him. That, against all rhyme and reason, it was a relaxing solace found whenever his temper was calm. Something irrational in her tried to determine if this was horcrux related or if this effect was felt by others as well. And a sliver, a small part, found herself almost wishing that it wasn’t— that this side to him was one that only belonged to her. A condemning desire, its origins unknown, that she vainly attempted to stifle, to stamp down, to ignore the possessiveness behind it.

‘Remember why you are here in the first place,’ an inner monologue reasoned, trying to stoke back up the fire from earlier. A heavy sigh followed suit, shoulders slumping as exhaustion latched its claws into her. She would love to fight, to argue, to try to make clear that line of distinction between them— evil vs good, immoral vs moral. But it was all so tiring, the energy required to do so was long gone from her system. Sleep, peaceful and easy was what she wanted— and how Harri would kill for it at the moment

“You know,” she ventured, voice wistful and lowered to a whisper as an auburn crown tilted back to rest on the lip of the chair, “I used to think you were the only monster out there.”

The Dark Lord’s grip tightened about the glass, long leg crossing over the other. He was aware, painfully so, of how she thought of him. After all, he had seen the image of himself so clearly in her mind, had heard the damning thoughts. But there was a difference between thinking something and verbally admitting it aloud. He found himself not quite wanting to know where she was going with this particular thread of conversation— both morbidly curious yet dreading it.

“But now? Now, I’m not too sure,” the girl continued, brows pulling together as she reflected on her life, of all those she had met both kind and otherwise, “I think too many people are and they just hide it well.”

He hummed in response, knocking back the remainder of the amber liquid and relishing in the burn as it slipped down his throat. She was right in her assessment— he had met far too many that hide cruel intentions behind honeyed words and flashing smiles. Admittedly, he was one of them. But he always did consider his saving grace was his awareness of the vile side to his nature. And he was all too aware that he suited her definition of a 'monster,'-- had reveled in it in the past and was comfortable in acknowledging it. Though, he supposed, that’s why it was easiest to label him as the sole evil in the world— such honesty made him the perfect target.

“Tell me about your life, Harri,” he filled in the gaps when she trailed off, finger tapping rhythmically against the chair’s armrest, “Your muggle relatives, specifically.”

Upon seeing the memories, it had taken the entirety of his will and strength not to hunt them down right then and there. To tear apart their limbs, to strip the flesh from their bones, to watch the light fade from their eyes for ever daring to touch her. But it was Snape who, in the end, had cautioned not to take action until the girl was free with the information, to avoid inciting any further fractures to an already precariously held together mind. And, after how she had reacted to the news of Dumbledore, there was some merit in the idea— after all, she may hold the same misguided sympathies towards them as well. 

A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth in the wake of the silence that stretched on. He might have even guessed that she had fallen asleep-- but no. There was movement on his periphery as an auburn head buried itself between drawn knees. 

“They weren’t kind, if that’s what you are asking,” Harri finally ceded to the question, a sleep-deprived mind trying to string together a coherent enough line of thought, “It could have been far worse though. And I had help from people to make it more bearable— like Mrs. Weasley. She would always send Ron a package at the end of the year to help me get by.”

Flashes of a loose floorboard, a stasis charm put over a picnic basket came to the forefront of his conscious, the girl having accidentally projected her memories into his. ‘She must be more exhausted than she’s letting on,’ an idle thought of concern as crimson eyes slid over to her curled up form. He found no moral dilemma in using this as a perfect chance to question her or to pry further information out of normally closed lips. It was an unsettling notion to arrive at to know there were far more memories than those he had witnessed, the beast in his chest pacing, rearing to lay it all bare.

“What do you mean by ‘they weren’t kind’?” he pressed, switching his legs to cross the left over the right.

“They hated me, you know,” the words were muffled, fingers curling deeper into the softness of her calves as she recalled unkind hands, the sneers, the pain, “Well, more specifically, they hated _magic_. But Dumbledore always made me go back, no matter how much I begged. He said I had to because of the blood wards.”

And there it was, another misdeed, another cruelty enacted by Dumbledore all for the sake of ‘the greater good’. The Dark Lord couldn’t quite help the sneer, the acidity on his tongue— the headmaster had known what was happening to her but still let it continue on. A grand master plan to condition the girl to equate the magical world to freedom, to make her want to come back-- to do anything to save it when the time came. It was beyond despicable understanding that the old man had purposefully left a magical child, his _Chosen One_ , in such a house and readily ignored the pleas not to return. Voldemort considered that if he could bring the man back, he most certainly would—somehow, the death he had given the headmaster seemed too painless, too quick.

“It got a bit better, though, once they realised they couldn’t beat the magic out of me and I started to go to Hogwarts,” an auburn head suddenly lifted, venomous spite in a curse green gaze, “They wanted to refuse, initially. Even took us to an island to escape the letters. But then Hagrid showed up and Vernon nearly fainted.”

He wisely chose to set the glass down before it could shatter in his grip, jaw tensing at her words-- at the fact that such filth even deemed it possibly right to lay their foul hands on something so precious. But there was some comfort to be found— the girl _hated_ them. The look in her eyes, the malice in her tone. Voldemort could sense her resentment, her fury, as real as his own, the beginnings of a storm that swirled perfectly in-sync with the one in his chest. And that was all he needed, the sign he had been looking for— the Dursleys just had their fate sealed in a passing sentence.

“Muggles can be cruel,” he surmised, sparing a glance over at the girl staring into the flames, the orange glow lending that fiery hair a radiance.

“Did you know that I was raised in an orphanage? A Catholic one at that.”

Harri had propped her chin up on a knee, frowning and glancing over in alarm at the red-eyed man. Somehow, she always forgot that he once was a child as well, hadn’t always been Lord Voldemort, the Darkest Lord of their century. It reminded her of his humanity and it was disconcerting. Perturbing. Perplexing. And to hear he grew up in the muggle world as well, in an environment that hated magic probably just as much as her relatives did? It was a shock to her system. ‘What other ways are we similar?’ Such a simple thought but one that she clung to obsessively without fully intending to.

“They tried to exorcise me once my core started to develop, believing I was possessed by the Devil,” he admitted, mildly taken back by how casually and freely he was in confessing to such a dark part of his youth— but, then again, if he couldn’t be honest with his horcrux, then with who could he be?

“Of course, I got my revenge,” Voldemort added wryly, a smirk that was as brittle as his voice.

A beat of silence. A stretch of time between them-- a soul unevenly split between two bodies yet having undergone similar fates. An introspective moment of how the Girl Who Lived and the Dark Lord shared more parallels than differences.

“Muggles can be cruel,” Harri finally echoed, stomach clenching at the thought— and not entirely for the priest’s gruesome end but for the ghost of a boy who had to endure such a thing.

* * *

* * *

The girl had finally fallen asleep on the chair, exhaustion ultimately winning its battle and claiming her for its own prize. Voldemort considered her for a second— how peaceful and relaxed her face was, the sorrow, the anger, smoothed from her expression. Crimson eyes flitted over its detail as though attempting to commit it all to memory. The fan of dark lashes on high cheekbones, the slightly parted rosebud mouth, the delicate arch of brows lowered in relaxation. ‘My own Sleeping Beauty,’ an assessing thought, possessive and content as he rose from the chair to reach for the limp body

‘She’s truly a light little thing,’ came a passing commentary as an arm tucked itself under her legs, the other curled about the thin expanse of her back. In fact, the girl felt nearly weightless in his hold and barely even stirred in his bid to pick her up. Voldemort studied his horcrux for a second, fixated when she had instinctively buried her head into his chest, curling into the warmth. A glance spared towards her bedroom door before he turned on his heel to his own. Somehow, the idea of relinquishing her just yet wasn't a pleasant one.

The entrance to his chambers parted, the dim glow from the mantle providing a soft light about the monochromatic room. Nagini was curled in front of the lowered flames, lifting her head in a curious manner when her master had entered with the redhead in his arms.

Voldemort paid the snake no mind as long strides crossed to the ostentatious four-postered bed, the duvet and silk sheets unfolding themselves under the will of his magic. Tenderly, gently, he arranged the girl on the bed, eyes glinting with a worshipful appreciation. ‘This is where she belongs,’ something whispered. Even his own logic had to admit that she looked at home among the black silk— a startling contrast of colour among a backdrop devoid of it otherwise.

A moment was passed in a reverent touch, admiring fingers drifting across the face and a thumb absentmindedly tracing over petal-soft skin. It wandered upwards to brush a stray strand from her forehead, passing over the lighting bolt just above her brow. His irrevocable claim, the little mark that had started it all.

 _“Nagini,”_ his words were distracted as he called forth his companion, hellfire eyes darkening as the pale girl had leaned into the touch, _“Watch over her. I have some business to take care of.”_

He barely heard the inquiries, the questioning, from his companion as she slid up the bed’s frame to watch with keen interest from above. All attention was honed in on his horcrux, the world about him fading as his gaze flitted hungrily across her features. It had taken every ounce of his self-control, of his will, to ignore the desire to stay with her, to cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed— to kiss her awake as her own twisted version of Prince Charming. To keep her here, locked and chain as a permanent fixture among his sheets.

‘Remember the task at hand,’ reason cautioned, bending to its command as he withdrew his touch and rising from the mattress’s edge.

‘It is time Severus,’ an insistent command was channeled through the mark, fleeing the bedroom, and intent on finding a distraction from a certain green-eyed girl currently occupying his bed. Every inch of him sang for blood, for retribution, for divine _justice_. To maim and destroy, to shatter and mutilate. To finally give in to the acrimonious anger and set the heavens to his will, his design. And he would be damned if he was to be denied any longer.

Number 4 Privet Drive flashed in the forefront of his mind, a tug at his navel as Malfoy Manor bled away into darkness.


	49. The Dursleys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I ended up coming back a bit late today-- it was my birthday and guys! The number of comments when I logged on and the number of subscriptions! You guys are all so seriously amazing and I don't deserve any of you 💕 Thank you for surprising me with that little present, it truly made my day!
> 
> As promised, here is a very special chapter for you guys! I hope you all enjoy it 💕 There is mild gore in this one-- not super explicit, so don't worry about that. I really don't like writing very graphic torture scenes so hope you guys forgive me for not going into a lot of detail 😂
> 
> As always, you are all amazing readers and you all have my eternal love and gratitude! Thank you to each and every one of you who leaves a comment, a kudos, bookmarks, just anything to show me you are still reading along! You all make it worth writing for 💕

* * *

* * *

If one were to ask the respectable inhabitants of Privet Drive what they loved most about their quiet suburbia, they might be inclined to respond thusly— “Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens here.” And, for the most part, that would be true. It was a sleepy sort of street with identical houses, save for a few minor variations in sidings or mailboxes, lined in a row, proper white picket fences, and perfectly manicured lawns. It was the kind of neighbourhood that those of the middle-class flocked to— not quite the upper tier but also far from being the lowest rung in society. All in all, it could be considered a quaint place to settle down, to raise children, and to build a life on.

How little did they know that, on a late winter’s night, the mild temperatures an indication of an impending spring, everything would change.

Standing under a lamppost, illuminated in the pale yellow halo, was a man. To any passing bystander, he may have passed for an honest sort of gentlemen— handsome in a tailored 3-piece suit, hair perfectly kempt, and Oxford loafers shined to a catching gleam. It was almost enough to overlook the fact that he was smoking a cigarette, a disagreeable sort of habit. Long puffs curling and crystallizing in the frigid air, the filter raised to a thinned mouth as he watched Number 4, an unreadable look overshadowing his refined features. 

However, upon closer inspection, one would have been quick to realise there was something off about the young man. The eyes were a bloodied hue, the skin a touch too pale, and almost marble in its smoothness. There was an unnerving splendor to his appearance, imperfections outwardly lacking— though one may try to find them. And the aura clinging to his frame, his skin, the lines of his body. It was one that triggered a fight or flight response, an unsettling heaviness, a warning of danger. 

An evil had appeared on Privet Drive.

* * *

* * *

‘So this is where she grew up,’ a passing thought as he raised the cigarette to his lips, an idle inhale. Quite rarely did Voldemort indulge in muggle habits, finding very few desirable— but even he couldn’t quite resist the urge to lapse back into a vice formed during the tender years of adolescence. An act of rebellion, a soothing balm of nicotine, the calm found in the repetitive motion. Raising it, inhaling, pulling away, exhaling. And he considered that, of all nights, it was warranted. It helped even out his temper a touch, reducing it from an inferno to something far more glacial. Allowed him to strike a balance that was desperately needed, to ease away the persistent memory of an auburn-haired girl curled in his bed. ‘Lucius would have a heart attack,’ a snide thought, smirking at the vision of the prim man having a fit upon seeing his Lord do something as mundane, and muggle, as smoking.

He flicked the smoldering bud onto the damp asphalt, grinding it under his heel as a scarlet gaze trained itself on the house across the street. The lace curtains were drawn, the windows darkened to relay its masters were asleep. In all sense of the word, the residence looked charming, sweet, cookie-cutter perfect-— how it made his teeth ache. After all, he was too aware of the despicable acts that had taken place behind its tanned bricks and outward respectability. A farce, a mask, a pretense that Number 4 was trying to maintain. There was a burning urge to set it aflame, to leave it as ash, dust, rabble under his feet.

“Severus,” came his quiet greeting, a soft pop at his side, an indication the man had arrived— and just on time at that.

Voldemort disregarded the rushed reverent acknowledgments, a tilt of his head for the headmaster to follow as he crossed the expanse of the groomed front lawn. Long strides, a slow casual grace to his gait— after all, he wasn’t in a hurry. Time was the one thing he never seemed to lack, to crave, having recently acquired an excess of it. Pausing on the front steps, a second was spared for an assessing glint to flicker over the dark woodgrain of the door. ‘What did she feel, I wonder, when she had to come back here?’ He could almost picture the girl standing next to him, shaking and embittered, school trunks sprawled on the worn concrete.

“My Lord, if I may,” Severus voiced from behind the man’s shoulder, hovering and brows drawn in confusion, “What exactly is your plan?”

“My plan, Severus,” the Dark Lord spared a quick glance, teeth glinting sharply, and a predatory look in his eyes, “Is to make the filth curse the very day they were born.”

A glow of soft light from a wand tip, a whispered ‘Alohomora’, a locked door giving way. Voldemort took a step inside the narrow entrance, squinting into the darkness. There was a wave of his hand to encourage the lights to come alive, the bulbs slow to respond. It took a second for the wizards’ eyes to adjust, a hush, and a pastel nightmare greeting them. Not that he had expected any different, of course, considering how late the hour was. The only noises in the house, it seemed, were the whir of a heater and the ticking of a wall-mounted clock— completely devoid of life. ‘Now where are the vermin hiding?’ 

Suddenly, there was a shuffle of movement on the second floor, a door being turned slowly, the soft hissing of a woman demanding her husband investigate. The cutting smile had stretched wider, the wand lax in his grip— an entirely deceiving notion of unpreparedness. After all, spells were already flashing in the forefront of his thoughts, the incantations bursting brightly across an impatient tongue and begging to be voiced. ‘There you are.’

The Dark Lord gave a silent tilt of his head for the potions master to follow, anticipation an itching sensation as it tore and gnawed the inside of his ribs. How long had he been waiting for this very moment? Ever since the day he had observed those blasted memories, a girl battered and bruised, it had been haunting him, an insistent phantom. But now? There was nothing holding him back— especially considering that his horcux had given him her unintended blessing. 

The pair were half-way up the stairs when a whale of a man had come bowling down them, face waned and a shotgun clenched tightly between fattened fingers. A moment of shock followed where the muggle seemed to lose his wits, blinking beady eyes to comprehend the two men casually standing on the carpet. Then he recovered, an attempt to point the barrel towards them— unfortunately, he never got far enough to pull the trigger.

“Petrificus Totalus,” a lazy murmur with an equally lethargic brandish of a wand, a corkscrew of light hitting the muggle square in the sternum.

The effect had been instantaneous as his muscles seized, eyes blowing wide when the firearm slipped from stiffened hands, balance lost. Voldemort had wisely chosen for a split-second apparition, a blink before he was on the second floor’s landing, the sickening thud of a body tumbling down the stairs behind him. Severus, unfortunately, lacked the foresight to do such and had to dive over the banister to avoid being swept away with the hurtling mass. The Dark Lord spared a quick glance over at a particularly revolting wet crack, the man having collided with the wall on the ground floor. The pictures strewn about rattled from the impact’s force, dropping casually and shattering their glass frames.

“Put him in the living room,” he commanded softly from atop the staircase, eyes glinting appreciatively at the pained moans escaping the heap crumpled at the bottom, “And then deal with the woman.”

There was something he wanted to see. Light was spilling from a cracked door further down the hall, the wife no doubt hiding in the closet or under the covers after the ruckus— but little mind was paid to it. Instead, his attention honed in on the frame littered with locks, crimson eyes narrowing a fraction at the sight. Deadbolts, sliding chains, and a padlock about the handle littered the painted wood— entirely an overkill, in his opinion. It was easy enough to piece together whose room this was, who was caged inside like an animal and locked away by cruel masters that held the keys. Though Wool’s was not, by any means, an extravagant existence, at least the matrons had the common decency to not treat their wards like unruly beasts. The Dark Lord slipped inside, scanning critically the spartan space when the overhead light finally hummed to life. Acidity bloomed brightly, something sharp writhing in his chest, an unsettling sense of calm to his center.

It was hardly fit to be called a bedroom— the word ‘storage closet’ far more telling. The floorplan was barely large enough to hold a frameless mattress crudely shoved against a wall— one lone ratty pillow, yellowed with age, and a frayed blanket on top— and a precarious-looking desk, a leg propped up by a stack of phone books. Recollections of her hopelessness, of that adrift and lost expression when she desperately pleaded that her gifted chambers were too big. It suddenly made sense as to why the girl had been keen to initially reject them. Understandably, it would be overwhelming to go from this squalor, a reality she had known her entire existence, to such grandiose finery. Crimson eyes darted about, landing on the single narrow window, and lips pulling back into a sneer at the sight. There were bars on it— like one might expect to see on a tiger’s enclosure at the zoo. ‘As if it wasn’t bad enough that they had to lock her in,’ a spiteful thought, hand twitching about the knobbed wand, the urge to shatter the glass pane nearly overwhelming.

He might have done so if a creak under his step hadn’t demanded his attention. The floorboard that he had seen in her mind a few hours ago, the loose plank where she squirreled away her most prized possessions. The Dark Lord knelt down, fingers hesitantly lifting it away, driven on by a morbid curiosity to see this private side of his horcrux, an ache to know what she considered precious. A few scattered packages of snacks, a broken snitch, a frayed snowy feather, a plastic toy soldier with its paint chipping off, and— a dry smirk as he reached down to retrieve a crumpled envelope. Ivory, wrinkled and torn at the edges, a crimson wax seal on the back. ‘She kept her Hogwarts letter,’ an idle thought, a sense of bitter fondness as he turned it over in his hands. A memory of a young boy in a stone building, devoid of colour and always holding a draft, a similar one tucked deep into a thin pillowcase. Sometimes, he would pull it out while everyone else had been asleep, squinting in the darkness as he held it up to the watery slivers of moonlight— read it over and over again just to assure himself it was all real. That it hadn’t been in his head, not just some cleverly concocted coping mechanism. For some reason, he could so clearly picture a redheaded girl, green eyes sparkling with hope, doing the exact same. Instinctively, Voldemort shoved the memento into the trouser’s pockets— there was one last thing he needed to see.

The cupboard had been waiting for him, tucked further down the cramped entrance and hidden under the stairs. Though the Dark Lord had played a second-party observer to her memories, had seen it there countless times, it was entirely different standing before the reality. Elegant fingers ran along the metal grate, the vent carved and slotted into the wood, a heaviness in the pit of his stomach. Part of him debated if he even wanted to see what lay beyond the door, to witness the full atrocity of the girl’s youth— he could remain ignorant, blissfully so. After all, the upstairs bedroom had been enough to seal the Dursleys’ fates, the barred window and endless locks. He opened it anyway.

Inside was a single exposed light bulb, a string hanging from it that, with a quick yank, flooded the small space with yellowed light. A single cot took up its entirety, leaving not even enough room for one to stand. Exposed pipes ran along the walls, a breaker box, and cardboard boxes of miscellaneous items for decor. And there, carved inside the frame, childish scrawl, jagged and uneven— ‘Harri’s Room’. A wandering hand traced over it, a glacial sensation frosting over his heart, his veins, a numbness spreading its creeping tendrils. The cupboard wasn’t even fit for a dog, nevermind a child. A magical one, at that, a prodigal creation, something as precious, as rare, as she was. Yet, this is where his horcrux grew up— in cramped darkness with dust, and spiders for her companions. Flashes of small hands reaching towards the slitted shafts of light, curled to one side and legs cramping from not moving, only being let out when absolutely necessary. The closet reeked of fear, of terror, of despairing loneliness. And how that only served to fuel his outrage, to push him onwards, to stoke that solemn vow of making the swine pay for what they have done. Overhead, the single bulb shattered, a rain of glass and a crackling fizzle of wires extinguishing.

In the den, Severus had managed to corral the two muggles, the latter of which were sitting on the rosy couch and looking near fainting. However, the woman seemed to have more spine than her husband, glaring at the potions master, and sniffing at the wand aimed at them.

“Severus, well done,” the heads had snapped to the Dark Lord when he entered the living room, unable to stop the frown at the pastel gaudiness of the den— the floral wallpaper, and the lace of the curtains.

Voldemort paid them little mind, humming in approval at the bloodied face of the man. The upturned nose had been broken in his tumble down the steps, alarmingly crooked and blood drying in flakes on the flabby jowls. There were signs of bruising around the bridge, ugly spots of purple that fanned under beady hateful eyes. ‘Perfect,’ a vicious passing thought as long strides carried him to the mantle, sneering at the photos of a fattened little boy staring back. ‘Like father, like son.’ However, as crimson eyes bounced about the frames, he noticed there was a distinct lack of a girl in any of them. It only served to confirm what he already knew— she was a servant, a maid, a phantom that was only brought out when convenient, and hidden out of sight when it wasn’t. And how familiar that was to him, a realisation that brought on a new edge, a new dimension, to his fury.

“Your son?” an idle question, a twisted smirk when there was no vocal response— the palpable tang of their fear was telling enough, “Where is he?”

The Dark Lord whirled around, hellfire eyes flashing dangerously, a wickedly gleaming row of teeth as he summoned forth a chair. No small part of him relished in the way they had flinched, had jumped back at the sudden display of magic, disgusted alarm so clear in their spiteful glares. One hand dragged the chair over, placing it with a finality across from them and settling down into it. A falsely congenial smile on his expression, an easy grace that made it appear as though he were a king in a throne. All attention was directed onto the beady-eyed man, the lack of mental fortitude almost appalling as a single word appeared, unbidden, at the forefront of his thoughts.

“Smeltings, hm?” that smile only widened at the paling of their faces, the complexions turning waned and waxy. The husband, ‘Vernon,’ his mind supplied, looked ready to throw up.

“We’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” he suddenly blubbered, rushing out in panic, in terror, to appease the man, “We’ll even tell you where the freak is if that’s what you want!”

Petunia nodded eagerly on the couch, eyes flitting over to her husband before landing in desperation back to the red-eyed man before them. She figured if that’s why the wizard was here in the first place, it was easiest to acquiesce, to spare her family, her precious son. After all, she would be a fool if she didn’t learn from her sister’s mistake— and what was the sacrifice of a child that, by all rights, should have been dead 16 years ago?

Fingers twitched on the wand, spinning it over in his grasp absentmindedly as a cold gaze fixated on the pair. How easily, readily, they were to give up their own niece, their own family. Not to mention the way they had referred to her in such a degrading manner. ‘He dared to call her a freak,’ a venomous thought, gums aching, an itch to sink his fangs into that flabby neck. To taste the copper of his blood, to relish in the spray of warmth as the life drained from him. ‘That’s too easy of a death,’ another voice countered, eyes narrowing a fraction in reluctant admittance to the rationale. In the end, he did have every intention of earning his pound of flesh, of repaying tenfold the suffering of his horcrux. At his shoulder, Snape had abruptly stiffened, a rare occurrence for the usually stoic man— apparently, he was just as offended.

“Severus,” the thin-necked woman had finally found her voice, attempting a new angle to threaten the potion’s master, “Dumbledore will hear about this, mark my words! We are under his protection!”

Voldemort was unable to help the burst of laughter at her audacity, the lunacy, the gall of using the old headmaster as leverage. ‘Truly insufferable.’ Part of himself wondered if the muggle woman honestly thought that highly of herself— that Dumbledore, of all people, would care if she died, went missing, was murdered right here in this nauseatingly decorated living room. The shocked look in those hazel eyes only served to further incite his delight, a cheshire grin as he leaned forward. The wand stilled between nimble fingers, a demented amusement shining in his gaze.

“Dumbledore is dead,” how liberating it was to say it aloud, a heady and warped feeling that made his eyes nearly glow in their contentment, “I killed him.”

The look of absolute, unbridled horror was a beautiful thing, a reaction that Voldemort had always found to be the most honest aspect of human nature. Fear was a great equalizer, a mode that stripped a person of their falsehoods, of their lies, their masks, and facades. In his opinion, no one was ever more truthful than in the moment when they experienced true terror— a light shining into their very soul. It was so easy to see what made someone tick, what their true mettle was composed of, during these seconds of vulnerability. And what he found in the woman before him inspired endless mirth, gleeful disgust, at how plainly she was lacking. How shallow, vapid, one-dimensional. The muggle was nothing like her niece, nothing like the spitfire of his horcrux. Because even when the girl was terrified, scared witless, she still had a spirit, a backbone, a blazing inferno— never quite fully cowing or submitting, never crumpling like the thin-faced woman before him was doing. Yes, Harri Potter truly was a gem, a diamond, and rarity, among humans. One that was worth coveting— especially so when compared to this uninspired and anemic display trembling on the couch.

“Tell me, Petunia Dursley,” he sneered, giving into the malevolence, the resentfulness, chasing after the despair painting her face, “Do you know who I am?

“I’ll give you a hint— I am the reason why you ended up with Harri in the first place,” Voldemort rose from the chair to tower over the seated muggles, relishing in the dawning of comprehension, and how her hand gripped at her husband’s in fright.

“Ah, so you do know me. Excellent,” the elder wand danced between his fingers, a cruel glint in a burning gaze, “Then you are also aware of the deeds that I have done.”

He couldn’t quite resist the urge to flash the elongated canines at them, the beast pacing restlessly in his chest more than content at how they quivered once they realised how irrefutably damned they were. The man standing before them was no ordinary wizard— he transcended all boundaries of what they thought was humanly possible. It was an alluring call, as sweet as birdsong, the crumble of their psyche, their fortitude, the way they had succumbed to fear without much resistance. Spells flashed in his mind, too keen to start the main event, to get on with their final judgment, their reckoning. 

“You see, that ‘freak’ you just so kindly referenced to is rather precious to me. And while Albus may have turned a blind eye to your past neglect of her, let me assure you,” vitriol laced every syllable, the air turning static in the wake of his rising temper, “I am no Dumbledore.”

* * *

* * *

She woke to a cooling hand on her cheek, the softest whisper of her name that dismantled the dreams. Objectively speaking, it was the best Harri had slept in a long time, somehow finding the bed, the scent lingering in the sheets, an oddly comforting thing. And while she should have been thoroughly dismayed, disgusted, that she found solace in it, the girl also couldn’t quite deny that there was a part of her that felt whole, satisfied, relieved. It was a war of two truths, a split down the middle of her conscience, a tug in either direction. The camp of logic and rationality versus the emotional and desire-driven one of the horcrux. A condemning reality that was making itself more and more apparent as the months stretched on— the pull was getting stronger, the shard’s voice and wishes increasingly more blatant. And how it terrified her, during the few introspective moments, that she had no way of stopping it.

“Harri,” the Dark Lord called softly, fingers brushing across cream-coloured skin, watching keenly as green eyes fluttered open and the lull of sleep bled away.

A twist of her head and she was blinking blearily up at the face of the red-eyed man, a look in his gaze that could only be described as something close to adoration. Her thoughts tumbled over each other as the haze tried to clear from her mind, a struggle to become cognizant. Only distantly was it registered that he was touching her, that he had been watching her sleep, hovering over the mattress’s edge for Merlin only knew how long. Brows knitted together, groggy and trying to foresee what he possibly could have wanted at this ungodly hour.

And then the girl was being pulled from the bed, a hand about her wrist tugging her from the comfort of the covers. An unbidden shiver at the abrupt coldness, the shock jolting her awake— the fire had gone out sometime during the night and, while spring was well on its way, the temperatures were still quite frigid. Harri blinked owlishly, having little time to react as the other arm slipped around the small of her waist.

“Come, I have a surprise for you,” he explained, a smirk sliding the corners of his mouth upwards, pulling her closer to him as the girl stumbled on sleep-laden legs.

* * *

* * *

There was a jerk at her navel, a disorientating sensation of the air being pulled from her lungs, the lines of her body squeezed through a narrow tunnel. Around them was a dampness--- a cold sting to the air, a staleness, and a distant drip of water. Harri looked around wildly, shivering as bare feet turned numb against the chilled flagstone, and frowning in confusion. ‘We are underground?’ Lining the cavernous hall were arches of stone, moistened and gaping threateningly, grates of iron bars carved into the rock— ‘A dungeon,’ an unhelpful thought that elicited another spasm of muscles, this time not entirely from the crisp breeze. It caused a lump to form in her throat, mind flashing with possibilities as to why Voldemort felt the need to bring her here, to drag her down into the earth. What ‘surprise’ could possibly be awaiting her in this underground prison? ‘It can’t be good,’ a thought decided firmly.

Having noticed her tremors, the Dark Lord spared a glance down at the girl in his arms, grip flexing ever so slightly around her. Sometimes, he forgot that the cold bothered others— he was so used to it at this point that the swirls of the arctic wind from the cells often went unheeded. But then again, his horcrux was rather small and possessed a lack of muscle that would normally regulate her body’s temperature. A mental note was made to perhaps order a diagnostic spell or have a healer come in for a visit— just in case. With a casual wave of his wand, heat settled over the prickled skin-- he smirked at the wary dip of her head in gratitude. A guarded searching gaze was running across his features, an amused chuckle as he relinquished the hold.

“This way,” he murmured, taking off down the stretch of a corridor, anticipation fuelling his steps.

Harri rushed after him, confused and anxious over what could have possibly put the Dark Lord in this good of a mood. One of the metal gates swung open as he approached it, a quick glance of crimson eyes over his shoulder to ensure she was still keeping up, before the man slipped inside. Frowning, the redhead followed after him on hesitant legs, a thin hand reaching up to push the frigid bars aside.

Peering into the darkness, she flinched when the sconces lit up with brilliant green flames, eyes stinging at the sudden change in lighting. However, the witch found herself almost wishing it had remained dark, had continued to conceal the horror that was waiting in the shadows. There, on the opposite wall and huddled against the stone, were the battered bodies of two people she had hoped to never see again. They looked terrible, as though they had undergone severe torture, caked thoroughly with grime and flakes of dried scarlet— ‘Because they have been,’ an appalled thought, stomach lurching at the stench in the cell. It smelt of an unholy mix of bile, of urine, and of spilled blood, a putrid and acrid scent that made her want to retch. 

The heavy iron door closed behind her with a grating screech, causing her to jump at the sudden sound. Her relatives had turned their heads when the prison was illuminated, wide-eyed fear upon seeing the Dark Lord had returned with their niece in tow. Yet, even in spite of their wounds, their pain, Harri still could so clearly see the shimmers of hatred in the depths of their gazes. It was a sight that left her speechless, mind turning as she tried to comprehend seeing them again, a shocked numbness in her limbs at the gore.

“What did you do?” she questioned, voice lowered to a horrified whisper as green eyes scanned critically over their broken bodies, desperately trying to keep the bile down from rising in the back of her throat.

“All the pain you have suffered, I returned back to them tenfold,” he surmised, attention fixated on her expression as she drank in the sight.

And it was true. Petunia’s skin was blistered, reminiscent of all the times Harri had burnt herself on the stove in a bid to get food on the table. There were large chunks of flesh seared away, bubbled and weeping, infection setting in. The woman was sporting a ghastly split lip, just like the one she had after her aunt had caught her across the face with a ringed hand. Vernon was far worse off— an entire arm shattered, laying at a gruesome angle in an echo of a broken wrist when she had refused to get back into the cupboard. Welts and gashes were covering the expanse of his body— flashes of the bite of leather against her skin. His nose had been fractured, bruising an alarming amount of his face, the front teeth jagged and chipped. It was a mesmerisingly revolting sight— a trainwreck she couldn’t quite look away from, torn between wanting to see more and erasing it from memory altogether.

“Why?” her question was detached, unable to look away from the muggles, trying to ignore their pained moans and cutting stares.

“Because, Harri,” he sneered over at their cowering forms, stepping over a pile of vomit, “They dared to touch you.”

She whirled around in panic, eyes wide at the confession— once again, he was acting of his own accord, was sowing pain and destruction all in her name. Though some vile part of her, deep down, was somewhat glad that they were finally suffering, her moral compass was thoroughly repulsed. And how it frightened her to know that there was such a twistedness in her psyche that found satisfaction in their agony. Was she secretly that messed up to revel in another’s pain? And yes, truthfully, she often thought of the Dursleys being on the receiving end of karmic justice. A fantasy of their reckoning — but these daydreams often involved her telling them off, a stinging hex or two, and never punishment to this extent. Her aunt and uncle were still humans, after all, capable of feeling something, of remorse and regret. And if they just apologised for their wrongdoings, Harri considered she would probably forgive them— or, at least, that’s what her conscience liked to imagine.

“You can’t just torture people whenever you feel like it,” she protested meekly, glancing over her shoulder at the groans, the wet sound of coughing, her attention being drawn against her will.

The Dark Lord watched her apprehensively, eyes glinting in calculation. The witch was objecting to it outwardly but he could feel it— there was a strand in her, a thread, that was warped enough to take contentment in seeing her abusers brought to justice. He just needed to expose it, to help that darkness break through the barriers of her misplaced morality. To make her understand this was a gift, a liberation, a freedom in finally getting reparations after years of not having the ability to do so. To help shatter the mold, the constraints Dumbledore had placed around her, hindering her growth— that she didn’t have to sit back and forgive every wrongdoing.

“Harri,” he grappled for reason, a calmness in his tone that worked in catching her off-guard, “I saw the memories— the cupboard, your room. They tormented you, maimed you, purposefully maltreated you time and time again, all because they hated your gift.”

She floundered for an excuse, trying to understand how he could possibly not see the wrongness of his actions. Yes, even if that were all true, he shouldn’t be allowed to play a god so easily, to determine another’s fate. No man, Dark Lord or not, should ever be granted that power. Teeth sank into her lower lip as she anxiously gnawed it, mind a dizzying blur trying to find a case for them, to buy them their lives, his forgiveness. However, her thoughts were sluggish, slowed, a traitorous voice whispering in her, _‘You know he’s right. Why are you trying to justify them, save them, when they would never do the same for you?’_ Her hands clenched into fists at her side, fingers curling and uncurling. ‘Shut up,’ a venomous thought in her own voice, a less than eloquent retort as she focussed back on their haggard forms. ‘They don’t deserve this,’ she argued but unable to really find a reason as to why they didn’t.

“Do you want to know what I think, Harri,” he crossed over from the wall he was leaning against, brow arched in cynicism, “I think you are blinded to the point that you do not want to admit the truth even when it is laid so bare before you. So allow me to enlighten you.”

The girl watched in bewilderment as long strides crossed over the expanse of the cell, a wrist suddenly snapping forwards, a flash of a knobbed wand. And then Vernon was on the ground, clutching desperately at the thick column of his neck. Bloodied fingers scrabbled for purchase, to find reprieve from the crushing weight on his windpipe, Petunia shrieking at the sight of her husband suffocating. Wells of scarlet, bright lines of gore, appeared as nails clawed the skin raw in desperation. Harri gaped at the Dark Lord, eyes wide at the fact that he was magically choking her uncle, so freely inflicting life-ending violence, and with no intention of easing up.

“Stop it, you’ll kill him!” she reached for the wand in his grasp, ready to pry it from elegant fingers only to be unceremoniously pushed back with one hand.

“You think they are capable of remorse? Take a guess as to what he is still thinking, Harri,” he seethed, crimson eyes flashing at her attempts to save the man, “That he should have killed you when you were a baby. Should have left you in the woods for the dogs, drowned you in a tub, should have ended your existence all to avoid his current fate.”

Harri shut her mouth with an audible click, stomach lurching as a green gaze slid over to her wheezing uncle. Somehow, she believed in his words. And not just because he was a legilimens, capable of slipping into another’s mind with ease, but because she had witnessed it. There were too many times the girl could recall Vernon explicitly threatening her life, to leave her in the middle of a forest, that he regretted ever allowing Petunia to bring her inside. But she always just assumed they were words said out of uncontrollable anger— not things he had actually meant. After all, how could family even consider such a possibility? _‘That’s a lie. You knew he meant it all this time. Don’t try to convince yourself otherwise— they were never your family.’_

“And her,” Voldemort’s glowing gaze snapped to Petunia, lips curling into a distasteful sneer, “She isn’t any different. In fact, when I threatened their son, do you know what their response was? That they would readily tell me where ‘the freak’ was instead. Not even a moment of hesitation before they were offering you up on a silver platter.”

“I-,” Harri trailed off, nausea overwhelming, a heaviness in her chest.

She looked helplessly to her aunt for denial, for any sign it wasn’t true— but there was none as the woman spared a hateful glance towards them, shaking hands hovering over her husband’s panting form. In fact, the venom in those hazel eyes confirmed it all, a nonverbal admittance to the damning truth. Some desperate part of the girl had hoped her aunt, out of the two, would be the one to deny it, to admit to a secret love always held for her niece— instead, all that was found was spite and resentment. The world seemed a bit too unsteady, swaying under her feet, a headache an unrelenting throb.

 _They were going to so readily give you up, despite knowing the danger, all to save ‘Duddikins’,’_ the cruel whisper taunted, shadows encroaching on the edges of her mind and swirling about her thoughts. _‘They didn’t even have the courtesy to pretend to care.’_ It was as though her mind was acting of its own volition, images flashing in rapid succession of every bruise and welt, every broken bone and unkind hand, every single cruel word that befell her at their expense. There was a stinging behind her eyes, throat parched, tongue heavy. She wanted to argue against that logic, to tell that rich voice to stop talking, and poisoning her mind. But, in all honesty, Harri was unable. Because the depressing, unsettling, and morbid truth was that they never did care for her. There was nothing in her past, not a single memory she could find that would point to them ever holding tender affections— not one birthday or Christmas present, not a hug or a kiss, not even a good-bye when it was time for her to leave for Hogwarts. It appeared, once again, that she was trying to find the good in people when all that existed was rot. Corrupting and toxic decay.

Voldemort watched with an eager hunger as those brows drew together, conflict warring on her face—but the winner was already evident. He was so close to making her give in, to making her see reason. To irreversibly taint her, force her to lean into the darkness that she was so content on suppressing— only a little extra push was needed. Suddenly, the Dark Lord was looming behind her, a constraining embrace that locked the witch in. An arm looped about her waist, slotting the petite frame against his, the other snaking over her chest to grab a fragile hand. The elder wand had been swapped out for his original, summoned to heed the call. Placing the yew into a trembling palm, he eyed the redhead in his periphery, lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he leaned down.

“There is no shame, Harri, in wanting to seek out justice,” he murmured softly, encouragingly, tone cajoling as his hand flexed about her own, “Remember that there is no good or evil— there is only power and those too weak to seek it.”

Green eyes drifted down to the surprising sensation of a wand placed into her palm, eyes widening fractionally at the sight. It was bone-white, a pleasant thrum of an echo of the one she had lost— the brother to her holly. And how good did it feel to have something so close to her faithful companion back in her grasp, the weight comforting, the warmth a reprieve. Long fingers cradled her own, gently constricting and curling about the wood, a burst of pleasure at the feeling of being whole. The surroundings of the cell seemed too distant as all attention latched onto the wand, the power he was giving her. _‘Use it, take what he is offering.’_

“You know the spell to make them hurt, to make them feel your pain,” he pulled her closer instinctively, crimson eyes ravenous as they trained themselves on the shuddering muggles, sensing the conflict in her slowly crumbling.

It suddenly was too hard to swallow, throat far too dry, too constricting. And despite the warming charm shimmering across her skin, Harri found herself with goosebumps prickling and hair raising all the same. Only distantly did she register as her body was tugged closer, the broad expanse of his back, the towering frame, doing little to distract her from the moral dilemma. ‘You know what he is asking you to do— don’t,’ reason cautioned, pleading with her to see sense, to not even entertain the idea. But that black mist was stronger, swirling aggressively and undulating in a way a serpent does about its prey. It was suffocating that light, stifling the logic, offering a sweet surrender in its stead. _‘They’ve hurt you time and time again, Harri. How much longer will you let them get away with it? Be their doormat for them to tread all over?’_

More memories flashed in her mind’s eye— the snake she had befriended in the garden with its head smashed in once Vernon had caught her speaking to it, the threats to shoot Hedwig for chirping too loudly, the hunger pains of being denied dinner for three days after she had broken a plate by accident. Vernon with his too-loud voice, and heavy hands that always left the worst bruises, with his cold eyes and endless cruelty, _‘He doesn’t deserve your kindness. He’s vile, and you know it.’_

A curse green gaze lifted up to her uncle’s bleeding form, heart constricting painfully in her chest. How many times had he made her hurt? Had made her bleed as well? Had caused her to suffer, to cry through the night? Those shadows only grew at the barest flicker of a sign that she was considering the idea, suddenly overwhelming and all-consuming. An ache in her gums, acidity bright bursts on her tongue, shoulders trembling. _‘Isn’t it easiest to just give in to the anger? Don’t fight it— seek it out. Make him finally understand. Show him your might, that you aren’t the scared little girl under the stairs any longer.’_ It was a tempting idea, a beautiful one, the blackened vapors clouding over her mind and filling every possible crevice, notch, recess. When she breathed in, it replaced the oxygen in her lungs, a pollution that stifled all life, all light. Her hand raised of its own accord, wand pointed resolutely towards Vernon, the man crawling away from his niece in panic.

‘Don’t do it,’ a faint voice trying to vainly part through the clouds.

 _‘Give in, say the words, Harri,’_ a stronger, louder, more insistent call, green eyes darkening, glazing over. 

The spell left her mouth of its own free will, a rising crescendo, a gale of tempestuous wind, and blazing heat, “Crucio.”

Harri only vaguely heard the raw screams, the sound too distant, too murky, too muddled. Everything just felt magnificent. A crashing wave of a high, electrifying sparks in her veins, a thrill, a buzz that made her feel more than alive— she felt transcendent, a god surpassing the mortal plane. Everything felt weightless, airy, like she had sprouted wings and was soaring in the heavens, tasting the clouds on her tongue, on her cheeks. There was a drowned-out inner voice begging for her to stop, to realise what she was doing. But it went unheeded in the face of something so much greater, so much more overwhelming. The girl knew the effects dark magic had on the caster, that it induced pleasure, was far too easy to lose yourself in once you started— after all, Barty had assigned them quite an essay to write about it. 

But even with that knowledge, it was difficult to prepare herself for the actuality. It surpassed the joys of flying on her broom, the elation of her Hogwarts letter, of getting drunk on firewhiskey— every powerful memory she had of ecstasy was overshadowed, diminished, dull in comparison to the feelings overriding her system. And though she saw Vernon twisting on the ground, wailing, howling, back arching— it was all a disconnect, far too removed from her to care about it. Harri never wanted this to end, never wanted to come crashing back down—

“That’s enough,” Voldemort whispered in her ear, abruptly removing the wand from her grip and cutting the connection.

Quite honestly, he hadn’t expected her to successfully cast it, to go through with the offer— yet, as usual, Harri Potter had thrown him for a surprise and taken him off-guard. Very few were actually able to cast an Unforgivable on their first attempt, nevermind produce such promising results. The muggle man was cracking and Voldemort had no doubt that if another minute had passed, he would have been as good as dead. Truly though, how glorious was his horcrux in this moment, panting in his grasp, eyes blown wide and dazed as she attempted to regain her wits, her composure. Of course, he could relate to her plight. Casting such dark magic was overwhelming, staggering, especially so the first time it was done— but oh, how beautifully did the girl wear it. Part of him hated having to end the spell, to break her reverie. To stop the intoxicating taste of her magic on his tongue, feeling it wrap around himself possessively, sweeping him in ecstasy along with her. If he hadn’t been ascertained before this moment of the darkness in her core, there was no denying it now. It suited her, was a second nature, a call that was begging to be answered. 

The erratic tempo of the witch’s heart against his chest brought him out of his musings, concern colouring the edges of his consciousness at the punishing beat. As regrettable as it was, it was for the best that he had ended it— it wouldn’t do, after all, to push her to the brinks of exhaustion, to burn through her core after being denied a wand for so long.

Crimson eyes trained themselves on the witch in his hold, flitting across the glazed over dilation— an expanse of void outlined by a ring of emerald. He considered if the colour had always been this bright, somehow seeming more vivid than normal in the aftermath of the cruciatus. The parted lips, the flush giving life to cream-coloured skin, the way her own attention was entirely fixated on him. She was completely and utterly radiant, captivating, his fingers twitching to cage her, to hold her, to forever immortalised this moment and never let go. An angel with its wings clipped, tumbling out of the heavens and plummeting down to earth— tainted with no return. But how beguiling she was in her fall, his very own Lilith. Everything about her in this moment was doing terrible things to his self-control, chipping just a touch more away at it, begging him to cross a line that should remain firmly drawn between them.

Harri had decided, as she twisted in his arms to glance upwards, that he had never looked more beautiful, more perfect, than he did in this very moment. That adrenaline was still in her system, a lingering syrup that made the dungeon around them less clear, a touch too fuzzy— except for him. No, the Dark Lord possessed a startling clarity in the face of the thrumming. In fact, she considered that she could count every single lash framing those almond-shaped eyes, their depths swirling with shades of red she had never even known to be possible. It was a heart-wrenching kind of artistry that went into his creation, a seraphic being painstakingly hand-formed into existence. Every detail, every inch of him was unfairly arresting— the finely shaped brows, the high cheekbones, the aristocratic slope of his nose, the defined jawline. And his mouth. She honed in on it, unable to tear her eyes away from tracing over the cupid’s bow, the shape. Everything in her felt too muddled, too murky except for one thing. A single persisting desire, inhibitions loosened in the face of the darkness pumping through her veins, a devastating pleasure in tune with an unstable heartbeat.

Her body acted of its own accord. One minute, she had been content to just watch him, to find some reprieve from her high, to listen to the muted wheezing in the background. And then the next, she was suddenly jolting forwards, pressing her mouth insistently, demandingly, against his own.


	50. A Starless Sky and An Imploding Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! My apologies for the super late update-- the past week has been quite the stressful one for me. My cat was hit by a car last Wednesday and, while he survived, he had to undergo emergency surgery. It was hard for me to sit down and find the time to actually edit but he's finally on the mend! 
> 
> Thank you for everyone who left me a comment asking if I was okay-- you guys are truly amazing and such kind readers, I feel unbelievably lucky to have you as my audience 💕
> 
> Hopefully, this chapter will be worth the wait-- I know it took longer than usual to get up but thank you for being patient! It's a bit of a spicy one with some angsty flair thrown in so I'm praying you guys will find it to be a fun time! 💕 Also, just be mindful of the tags-- I've been trying to update them to prepare for the next few in coming chapters.
> 
> As always, thank you for all of the comments, kudos, bookmarks, and love you've shown this fic! Every time I log in, it's always to see such wonderful messages from you guys and it truly does make my day! 
> 
> Enjoy 💕

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One of the greatest fundamental truths of Lord Voldemort was that he was a man of the world, created and formed by his experiences. He had seen things that would render those lesser mute, had accomplished feats that vaulted him past the limitations of the glass ceiling on innumerable occasions. In fact, it might even be more accurate to say that he had _shattered_ it— obliterated the errant shards until all that remained was a cloud of fine dust. And even those who would consider him their sworn enemy could not deny that the deeds he had done were godlike, extraordinary, constantly pushing the boundaries of man’s inherent constraints. As such, there were very few things remaining in the mortal plane, he had figured, that could render him surprised or truly shocked. But a velvet mouth suddenly pressed against his own without warning? Well, that certainly made the list.

The day was quickly becoming marked by unpredictable events— ones that left him astounded, mystified, bewildered. A storm brewing on the horizon, rolling clouds holding the promise of unbridled chaos. A beautiful yet tumultuous vision not entirely unwelcomed. There was a recognisable pattern, after all, underlying their past interactions, one in which the initial point of contact always befell him to encourage— his hands on her skin, his action prompting her response. And even in those traitorous dreams, in those ponderings that stretched late into the night when sleep refused to come, Voldemort had always envisioned himself as the one to take the first step. The one to cross the line, to pull them past the point of no return, to incite the final damnation of Harri Potter. As such, it had never been entertained that she would take control— a blasphemous hope and an unrealistic wish. So it was understandable that when his horcrux had suddenly acted of her own volition, had disrupted the established hierarchy that dictated their relationship, the man was shocked. That all he could do was stare, crimson eyes blown wide in a stunned stupor, the whimpering cries of the muggles entirely forgotten.

A beat of silence as a rosebud mouth withdrew, uncertainty bright in glassy eyes, brows knitting together in confusion at the lack of a reaction. Voldemort briefly considered the witch, a calculating hunger in a slitted crimson gaze when the kiss had been rescinded. How long had he dreamt of this moment? To finally have her in his grasp and to hold her this way? How often had his imagination plagued him with images, with phantom lips and sensations? Logically, he was aware that this was, by all accounts, a terrible idea— she was far from ready, was still too young and naive, had only been carried away by the beguiling allure of dark magic. And he was supposed to be the adult, the one with the iron will that could safeguard their boundaries until the time was right. But seeing the dazed expression, that emerald stare begging for something that she couldn’t quite place— suddenly, abstinence seemed like a ridiculous concept. The control that was already precariously thinned, ever so waning, splintered, fissured, crumbled.

Initial surprise ebbed, submitting to something ungodly, sinful, impious in nature. He wanted her. An undeniable truth, a damning one that had been obsessively nurtured since that fateful night in the graveyard. That immoral yearning festering when the truth of the girl was revealed, held fast on the tomb of his father’s bones, smears of gore and blooming bruises her warpaint. And if this was to be his reckoning, if this was to be the infraction that would permanently cast him out of the Garden of Eden, if she was the forbidden fruit offered up by the serpent, then fine. He had no qualms or reservations about readily accepting it. The arm hooked about her waist flexed, drawing the petite frame back to him with an unrelenting strength. Every fiber, every nerve, every molecule and cell that made up his being was screaming to let go of any objections. To quash and quell the voice of the conscience battling the cacophonous roar of the sea. And so he did. 

Her mouth had parted, an apology on the tip of a hesitant tongue, unformed words that he eagerly swallowed down. A desperation to stifle their misplaced guilt, to act before her rationality could dissuade or discourage. Buoyancy immediately erupted, a floating warmth, an urgent need to chase after that glow. A sweetness, completely unhindered euphoric vibrancy that made the underground prison seem so distant. But hovering in the background of it all was a blight, an uncaged beast. Pacing, gnawing, teeth bared— insatiable and unwilling to compromise. Its depraved manifesto was one that spurred over-consumption, to extend its jaws, and to assimilate until not a single trace of her remained untouched by its influence. His lips moved demandingly against hers, an unyielding pressure that refused to grant the opportunity to flee, body relishing in the warmth seeping from cream-coloured skin— a single thought, ‘More.’ The overwhelming desire to devour, greed his incriminating vice. And he figured that the girl had brought this upon herself, had knowingly fanned the embers, had willed that once-dormant creature to rise from the cooling ash— so, at the very least, she could burn alongside him in atonement.

There had been a tug at their navels, a pull in the pits of their stomachs as the dungeons abruptly bled away. A faint awareness registered that the pair had been summoned back to the bedroom, a sanctuary of monochromatic tones and black silk. It was fitting, Voldemort contemplated in a fleeting thought, that the girl wrapped in his arms was the sole pinpoint of colour amongst the dullness— fair where he was not, a light to his darkness, the balance that he never knew he had needed. And how perfectly was she at home here, a startling contrast to the muted hues that made up his world. In a place far from the acrid smells, the palpable tangs of fear, and the dampened earth— their own temple hidden from the judgment of an unknown god, a portion of the universe carved out just for themselves. A safe haven for sinners, a paradise for this moment, a gilded display to showcase his most beloved masterpiece.

The Dark Lord hadn’t pulled away when they landed, lips possessively guiding her along to set the pace. She was clumsy, more inexperienced than he had initially thought— all too easily acquiescing and giving in to his directions. Yet, it was oddly endearing the way she was rising to meet his hunger, molding herself against him just as enthusiastically, an unspoken refusal to be intimidated. And how in character was it that his horcrux was still this stubborn even when plunged so clearly out of her depths. Wandering hands slid down to the backs of bare thighs— only now discerning that she was still dressed in the slip of a nightgown. Deft fingers curled into the softness, lifting them up insistently with a steadfast strength, a silent bid for her to follow suit. She hadn’t hesitated. Long legs wrapped about his hips, delicate hands clutching at broad shoulders for support as she granted him the power to arrange their positions to his desire. Bodies suddenly spun in a blur and the girl found herself pinned against the wall, held in suspension off the ground by his frame. A soft moan at the ache in her spine that had accompanied the rough handling— the protest, however, entirely lost between their shared breaths.

Slotted lips finally broke apart, chests heaving for a respite, greedy gulps of air where none was to be found. Emerald eyes locked with crimson ones, an awestruck wonder glinting in their vivid depths as feelings began to process. Harri understood that this was all tremendously reckless, even by her own standards — but the meek voice of logic was drowned out in the face of the demanding pulls of pleasure. If she had thought that the light summoned before was overwhelming, then it was truly devastating in this very moment. Everything felt far too alive, humming with newly-found energy, shots of electricity poured directly into her veins with no intention of ever easing up. Each cell was vibrating, heart fluttering erratically between the confines of its cage, knees strangely weak, and limbs alarmingly numb. A distant note that her hands, as they found purchase in the firm muscles of his back, were trembling. They curled experimentally to chase off the tremors— minorly relieved that they could still move . And yet, despite the unusual sensations that, by all rights, should have terrified her, the girl found herself craving more. To feel those sparks to her system, to keep that high going, to supplement the rolling waves of rapture leftover from the Unforgivable. 

A startling, damning revelation — she _wanted_ to fall. If slipping into the void felt this spectacular, this gloriously breathtaking, then she never wanted to surface or to know a life without it. Why had she even denied herself this long anyways? And not for the first time in her life, Harri wished to forget everything— Dumbledore’s betrayal, the crime she had just committed in the dungeons, the crushing expectations of the world. To just let it all fade in the encompassing tide surging through her core, to sink under the water and have the harsh realities wash away. To escape for just a few moments, to lean into the indulgent liberation he was offering her.

And those eyes. Those scarlet eyes drinking her in, the darkness, the intensity, the ravenous yearning. They caused her stomach to clench, for her blood to turn molten, to inspire a flush of scorching heat across exposed skin. Everything was off-balanced, off-kilter— this was nothing like when she had drunkenly kissed Draco in the Hufflepuff common room. In fact, it was almost laughable to compare the two, the differences far too great, too immense, to even be in the same sentence. That gaze was smoldering, swirling with indescribable shades of red that she was certain were brought into existence solely for him. A passing thought, an unbidden assessment that served as the perfect summary of the man caging her in. He truly was a supernova, a sun, a gaping black hole dominating their solar system, his pull forcing her into orbit whether she wanted it or not. Seconds away from imploding, from plunging the universe into true darkness, from creating new worlds in the wake of such chaotic destruction— and how she craved to experience it alongside him when the time finally came. _‘I need more. It’s not enough,’_ a siren’s call, a flood through the bond, its origins unclear— the plea could have come from either of them at this point, everything far too entangled to fully separate out. Yet, he had heeded it all the same. A bruising force, keen and ungovernable, descended back on a waiting mouth.

There was a demanding swipe of a tongue against her lower lip, a silent command, a quiet gasp that was taken advantage of. He tasted of honey and the sweetest of lies, of shadows and the greatest sin— a sacrilegious combination that robbed the very breath from her lungs and the coherency from her mind. ‘This isn’t right and you know it,’ a whisper, its severity diminished by the bursts of light behind closed lids. The air about them was charged, static, an oppressive magic that, for once, she had welcomed as an old friend. Shaking fingers curled deeper into the planes of his shoulders, a splayed hand smoothing over the dip of her waist while the other snaked its way up past the knobs of her spine. And then unexpectedly there was a fist in an auburn crown, the pressure of a harsh downwards tug that exposed the pale column of her throat. Green eyes fluttered open when he had pulled away, a smirk on a plush mouth and hellfire ignited in an unholy gaze. 

Quickly following was a gentle nudge against the hollow, an expel of air that danced cooly across blushing skin, a tender press of lips on her pulse point. It was perplexingly sweet, out of character, attention forced to the ceiling above and frowning in confusion at such a docile display of behaviour. However, it didn’t last long. Teeth, sharp, dangerous, wicked, buried into the delicate skin, a looming threat to draw blood— only to be released a few seconds later, the heated pull of a tongue laving against the sting.

A hitch of a breath, a solemnity, a vow, a sacred melodic hymn made just for him, and oh— how beautifully did his horcrux sing it. He watched her reaction from his periphery, the way the wet sheen of her mouth had parted, the mild sting of fingernails impressing half-moons through the fabric of his shirt. How her legs had flexed imperceptibly around him, how she had jolted when he bit down to reveal that pleasure and pain were two sides of the same coin. She was perfect, so readily adhering to his desires, a blank canvas to dye, to form, to shape— yet, it wasn’t still enough.

Despite the glow, the floating, the searing syrup flooding through them, he could still feel it. The rising swell, the pollution, the voice whispering that he couldn’t be satisfied with just this. But wasn’t that the truth of his entire existence? When had he ever been fully content? Appeased? Fulfilled? A lingering product of a youth, of a childhood, passed by in continuous squallor. Of never having enough— of going to bed at night with an empty stomach, of only having threadbare clothing to his name, of being continuously denied the praise others were so freely given— a gaping maw never quite satiated. That persistent itch never quelled or tamed, the source of such rooted too deeply to ever reach. And yet, no matter how much he had gained, had won, had acquired, it truly never mattered— famine was to always be his most faithful and truest companion.

There was a growl from his chest, a heaviness between his ribs, an ache in his gums. The hand interlaced through fiery strands constricted, a keening cry when teeth sank in cruelly— a visceral reaction to seeking out appeasement, and relief from such damning thoughts. To come back to the moment, to focus on the girl under him. Solace was found in the fitful and flighty cadence of her pulse, in the beauty of holding her life in his grasp. And he wasn’t quite sure which was more thrilling— the knowledge that he was the one in control or the fact that she seemed to be reveling in it as well. The hand about her waist roamed further down, brushing across the petal-soft skin of a bare leg and, unthinkingly, slipping past the lace hem of the nightgown. Faint warning bells were being raised, muffled cries that this was going too far, that he needed to stop before anything irreversible between them could occur. Voldemort ignored it in favour of pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the divot of a collarbone, a sense of triumph surging through him at the way her back had arched away from the wall. With a soft moan to serve as encouragement, bolden fingers skirted under the band of her underwear, a thumb digging pressured circles into the starting notch above a prominent hip-bone.

And suddenly, Harri was no longer in her mind but his own, a disorientating experience that made the world spin. _‘More, more, more.’_ An endless sibilant mantra, overpowering as it played on an obsessive loop. It rang in her eardrums and pulsated in time with her skittish heartbeat, her head beginning to throb from the intensity. It was dark within his mindscape, unnaturally so, swirls of shadows obscuring any traces of light, and corrupting vapors that clung like a second skin. The Dark Lord hadn’t even seemed to notice that she was in there alongside him, having been summoned forth by their connection— an orbiting planet unable to resist the gravitational pull of its sun, an ultimatum she was forced to comply with.

There was no buoyancy, no warmth, no pleasantness here— just an endless void, unwelcoming and hostile to the stranger encroaching upon its privacy. A shock to her system, an abrupt crash to the once intoxicating high, body now shivering for entirely different reasons. The black mist curling about her feet had begun to eagerly devour her limbs, refusing to relent its hold, to leave her in peace as she stumbled about blindly. ‘How do I get out?’ In here, the atmosphere was frigid, glacial, a coldness so unlike one that she had ever experienced before— trudging back from Hogsmeade through an unexpected winter’s storm, the stinging draft at Grimmauld Place that always seeped through chunky sweaters, the explosions of snowballs against frost-bitten skin. Her memories of ‘cold’ couldn’t even begin to compare. _‘More, more, more.’_ Fouling pollution and pestilential desire filled the expanse of her lungs, choking, suffocating, stealing away all traces of oxygen for its own. A hand rose to desperately claw at her throat, vision blurring as she sought out air that wasn’t so contaminated. ‘Stop it,’ begging voice lost amidst the churning chaos and endless night. It was a film coating her insides, circulating in her arteries, claiming every inch of her as its own— an unknown entity that had to be integrated into the whole. The earlier thought of wanting to be at his side when he plunged their existences into the abyss, created new worlds from his pandemonium seemed far less appealing now. A delusional impulse made by a clouded over mind— and the girl found herself wishing to rescind such a notion, the reality petrifying when juxtaposed with the fantasy.

Harri could almost feel it twisting and writhing in the empty spaces of her ribs, a parasitic sensation that encouraged the idea of retching. ‘Please, let me out!’ However, there was no exit in sight, no reprieve from the undulating void, no light at the end of the tunnel that would cease this nightmare. Wisps of fog curled higher about her frame, assimilating her body into the endless backdrop of muted shadow. Toxicity originating from a devil intent on consuming, the depraved desire inspiring fear, terror, an urge to flee from his hold. _‘More, more, more,_ ’ an unholy sermon from a bodiless specter. She whirled around frantically, a singular luminous spot in a sky without stars— they had all been swallowed by him, imploded and rendered into oblivion. Panicked hands tried to wipe away the creeping tendrils, smoke slipping between the crevices of thin fingers. ‘Why is it so cold in his mind, why is it so dark, so smothering-.’

An abrupt gasp as though her head had been held under arctic water, tremors tearing through a slight frame as the remaining threads of desire slipped away. Vaguely, she registered a tear rolling down her cheek, an unbidden response to witnessing such an infernal purgatory. Harri felt sick, nauseous, nerve-endings hyperaware, vision distorting and swimming. The hand resting at her hip, the bruising pressure of it burrowing into her flesh became the only thing she could focus on, an overriding panic that Voldemort seemed entirely unaware of. ‘Make him stop,’ logic pleaded, that destructively noxious desire bleeding over into their waking connection. And despite the warmth, the fireplace roaring with comforting cracks, a ghost of a chill passed through her all the same. The bedroom was beginning to dim, bile rising in the back of her throat when an eager open-mouthed kiss was placed upon her skin.

Yet, he seemed ignorant of the change in her demeanor, at the loss of her pleasure when so preoccupied with his own. Fingers drifted lower and the position she once thought exhilarating was now anything but— the wall at her back too rigid, the hips holding her up threatening, the body looming over her presenting a new danger. ‘Why does he feel like that?’ a horrifying question, unable to forget the terror of being forcibly drawn into his mindscape. In the past, whenever she was in there with him, it had been agreeable enough— not at all like that oppressive chasm she had just endured. ‘Because it was all a mask,’ a traitorous murmur, a disconcerting reminder that he was still a Dark Lord, a fact that she so conveniently kept forgetting at the worst of times. He had purposefully concealed that darkness, the prodigious and devastating wretchedness of his soul, of his psyche— a shard of which was rooted deep within her as well. It felt as though ice had been injected into her veins, her heart, her blood, everything freezing over and refusing to thaw. 

“Stop,” she whispered, voice hindered by a soreness as though she had been screaming— had she been? Truthfully, it was hard to remember, the memories blurred, fuzzy, far too muddled. 

He seemed to not hear the protest, lips pressing demandingly against the curve of her jaw on the tender spot just below the ear. Harri gritted her teeth, chest heaving with panic as the harsh reality had begun to set in— their position, what they had been doing, the atrocity she had just committed in the cells. Escape was all she could think of, the need to flee, to run from the red-eyed man holding her up, and caging her in. From that sinful mouth, those searching fingers leaving behind their impressions on her skin, the scorching heat and captivating smell of sweet smoke. Shaking hands relaxed their vice-like grip on the pressed fabric to slide down to his chest, flexing under the broadness of it in a pathetic attempt at a shove. The energy was lacking, drained from her limbs, a frightening awareness that she felt beyond exhausted. 

_“Stop it,”_ Harri hissed out vehemently, hating how her tone had quivered, how off-balanced and unnerved she felt.

Voldemort stilled at the command and weak push, confusion unfurling in the wake of the girl’s surprising refusal. Slowly, he pulled away from her neck, bewildered crimson eyes flitting across a heart-shaped face for any indication of what was possibly wrong— what could have caused her to go from reveling under his touch to demanding that he leave her alone? Fingers reluctantly withdrew from the silky skin of the hip and auburn hair, having already hazard a guess as to what her next demand might entail. Instead, they cautiously splayed themselves on the wall by her sides, hovering close but not quite making contact. A perplexed frown upon seeing her expression, an idle tongue running over his canines in puzzled appraisal. The unfiltered horror had turned those curse green eyes a shade brighter, her breathing a panicked and uneven tempo. It would appear that his horcrux was finally coming to her senses, that the delirious ecstasy induced by her casting was wearing off. And how sobering was that dismay of hers, his own enjoyment dissipating at the girl’s unexpected reaction of fear. 

“Harri,” he began slowly, imploringly, trying to comprehend why she was looking far too waned and anxious.

By all accounts, their kiss had been tame in comparison to his usual habits, a small part of him withholding and wanting to avoid pushing her too far— at least, not yet. But the redhead was acting as though it had been the greatest sin, that he had stolen her virtue, had forced her into ruin. And, for the life of him, he couldn’t quite figure out why she was having such a baffling reaction or why she was looking at him with such blatant distress. Attention fixated on the glint of a tear, the corners of his mouth twitching at the sight. A hand raised of its own admission, a thumb brushing gently over a high cheekbone, and smearing the droplet across paling skin.

“Harri, what’s wrong-,” his tone cautious, even more perplexed that she was crying of all things.

“Put me down,” she cut him off, wanting to escape the too-warm hands, the searching scarlet eyes, the breath fanning across her skin that relayed how close he was.

Unsteady feet hit the ground a second later and Harri stumbled on weakened legs, a looming threat that they were about to buckle. Outstretched hands immediately reached for her but Harri fixed him with a sharp warning glare— a look that cautioned him not to touch her under any circumstance. They froze in mid-air, frown deepening as though, for the first time in his life, the Dark Lord was unsure as to what his next course of action should be. ‘I kissed him,’ she was appalled, repulsed, scandalised with herself for, somehow, even making such a grave oversight. And the girl couldn’t help but wonder if her mind was irrevocably damaged or, perhaps, already suffering from the infamous ‘Black Madness’— after all, she had to be to consider this was even remotely okay. Silence fell between them, a tensed weighty thing as one studied the other with morbid interest, the upheaval and disorder after a passing storm. 

‘He looks—,’ her thoughts trailed off, taking in Voldemort’s appearance. The usually perfectly kempt hair was disheveled, a stray curl finding purchase above a brow— the crisp collared shirt wrinkled from where she had clutched at it, the sultry mouth swollen, and those eyes. They looked positively starved, glowing with, undoubtedly, immodest thoughts, a desire left unsated— and one that she had no intention of helping to fulfill. The witch took an uneasy step back at the sight, heart skipping over a beat as green eyes flickered over his towering form. In every sense of the word, the man looked completely and utterly depraved, the human embodiment of temptation, of seduction, of sin. Crimson eyes raked across her skin, a slow purposeful drag, fingers flexing at his sides. Judging from that particular reaction, coupled with how intently his gaze was fixated on her, Harri imagined she must have looked pretty similar. ‘Merlin, I need a drink.’

Harri could feel the weight of his attention settling over her shoulders as quickened feet carried her to the crystalline bar, refusing to speak as a quivering hand poured a healthy dose of brandy into a glass. It splashed noisily in the quiet, threatening to overspill. Lingering in the background, Voldemort seemed as though he wanted to say something, to protest, to argue that she shouldn’t be forming such a nasty habit as drinking— but the admonishment never came. The girl knocked it back without any hesitation. After an unbidden wince following the immediate burn, she set the tumbler down forcefully and trained her own stare on the dancing flames. It was easier to look at the mantle than at him— with his debauched appearance that spoke of what they had just done, with the blatant calculation in hellfire eyes, with the way she could feel he was craving more. ‘But that’s what it always boils down to though, doesn’t it? Him taking and wanting,’ a grim assessment, nerves strung far too tightly and threatening to snap. The sudden intake of alcohol did little to pacify the churning in her stomach, too many emotions finally filtering through the queue and demanding her deliberation.

“I kissed you,” she muttered, speaking more to herself than to him, “Sweet Merlin, why did I kiss you?”

“Harri,” Voldemort tried again, jaw clenching at the amount of conflicted devastation flowing freely in their bond— it would appear that the floodgates between them were opened, more so than usual, and how he despised it.

"I kissed you,” she repeated scathingly, letting the truth sink in, acidity bursting brightly on her tongue at the prospect.

The witch tried to stamp down the urge to throw the glass at the wall, to hear it shatter, to find a physical outlet for her self-loathing, “What the hell is wrong with me?!”

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed a fraction at her confession, at her need to chalk their moment up to a mistake, to something faulty in nature— a regret. And it left him bitter, vexed, the desire to stifle such beliefs pressing. Elegant fingers contracted into a tight fist at the mental image of them wrapping about that pretty little neck— and just squeezing. To ensure that there would be no breath left in her to continue such profanity, such debasing convictions. To make her stop undermining what they had, and from belittling the entire experience. ‘It would seem that we are back to denial.’ Long strides brought him closer, pleased enough when she hadn’t reared back from the proximity. But then again, his horcrux was also refusing to meet his eye, to fully acknowledge him. There was a swelling impulse to sneer, to demand she look at him, to stop treating him as though he were a mere ghost— a difficult thing to suppress that took more control than he should admit to.

Why was she acting like it had been the worst thing in the world to have kissed him anyhow? After all, he knew from previous experience that plenty of women had found him not lacking in expertise. That they, by a large consensus, worshipped at his feet, were eager to have such attention bestowed onto them. And yet, here was this slip of a girl, with hair made of fire and eyes an echo of a curse, acting as though it had been vile. Revolting, abhorrent, defiling. A nightmare, and an ordeal rather than a pleasure. But even she couldn’t quite deny the sparks, the electricity, the pull of their connection— and he would be damned to let her try.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he grappled for reason, trying to ignore the rising temper, the flares of his ire at her deprecating resistance. 

“Oh, but there is,” Harri reached for the decanter and poured herself another brimming glass, “I just tortured my bloody muggle relatives and then felt it was wise to make out with _you_ , of all people. Doesn’t really spell out ‘sanity’, now does it?”

A hand shot out to wrestle away the bottle of amber liquid from her grasp, firmly placing it away from reaching fingers and sending her a sharp warning not to push her luck. Harri tossed a resentful glare his way, purposefully knocking back the full glass with an arched brow— a silent challenge. The muscle in his jaw ticked, a shaky inhale as he struggled to understand her point of view, to exercise some direly needed patience. After all, he was supposed to be the adult, the older of the two, the one with more maturity and composure. And he supposed that it was understandable she was alarmed by such an overwhelming reaction, especially so if she lacked any substantial prior experience— the way she had moved against him had been telling enough in that regard. Plus, if he were to be honest, the intensity of the bond had even taken him by surprise with its profound ardor, a slip up that had escaped his ability to ever predict. ‘She’s deflecting, don’t rise to the bait,’ logic cautioned, advice so difficult to heed whenever faced with his horcrux’s daring and rapidly souring disposition. Just when some genuine progress was thought to be occurring between them, that they had finally taken a step forward, they were abruptly yanked back by the chains of continuous rejection and dismissal. Merlin only knew how wearing it was on him, a constant grating on the cogs of his self-restraint, a drain on his leniency.

“If you opened your eyes and abandoned your misplaced sympathies, you might understand that they deserved it,” he retorted, eyes flashing as a hand reached for hers, the redhead shrinking back from the contact, “And what exactly is wrong with choosing me? I wouldn’t say that I’m exactly the most undesirable option. There is nothing to be scared of, Harri.”

Glittering green eyes regarded him, brows knitting together in contemplation as she mulled over his analysis. He was completely right— she was, indeed, scared. A feeling that she hadn’t really even entertained before he pointed it out, a lump in a parched throat at the thought of him, somehow, knowing her own emotions better than she did. Because, quite truthfully, she was more than scared, she was _terrified_. Of him, of that cutting darkness hidden under a pretty face, of how easily she had slipped, had been lured in by a fantasy of a boy from a diary that she had been harbouring since her 2nd year. And though she couldn’t claim to be an expert on the dark arts, Harri figured that it shouldn’t be possible for someone to cast an Unforgivable that easily— nevermind on their first attempt. That one would have to be truly demented, warped, impure to be able to achieve such a thing. It was an instinctual reaction to shy away from that outstretched hand, too wary and apprehensive of how easy it could be to lose control.

“You truly don’t see anything wrong with this? With what we just did?” Harri questioned in disbelief, gaze lifting from the empty glass to flit across a tensed expression, his growing impatience the barest flickers in the back of her mind.

“No, I do not. So, enlighten me. What is so immoral about giving in to something that’s only natural?” he pressed, allowing the girl to take a step back, mind turning over with how he could make her see reason.

“Because— You’re Lord Voldemort! You kill and murder and maim. You represent the evil in this world— and I’m supposed to be _good_ damn it. I’m supposed to be _light_ , to fight you, to rise up against you! There isn’t a single natural bloody thing about this,” she couldn’t quite help her voice from jumping an octave, gesturing wildly with the crystal glass as the words came tumbling forth.

And perhaps it hadn’t been the wisest idea to chug brandy like water— but she figured that she had needed the liquid courage now more than ever. It was as though a faucet had been turned, the handle rusted and corroded with no way of stopping the steady stream. Hysteria was rising. Harri could feel it almost as viscerally as she felt the rifts in her ideology, the piercing blades that shredded the fabric of her morality. A boat with its sails tattered, stuck in a doldrum without the means to move on. Flashes of Dumbledore, pale eyes holding nothing but disappointment, appeared in the forefront of her mind, salt poured mercilessly on an open wound. She had just done the one thing he always preached against, had given into the darkness existing within herself that the man cautioned she must never heed— and had done so under the coaxing of his murderer. It made her want to retch.

“I’m supposed to be the one everyone is banking on to right the mess _you’ve_ created. Not making out with my enemy, not being persuaded to cast Unforgivables on muggles. You’re a-,” she abruptly cut herself off, jaw closing with an audible click, the word dying on a loosened tongue— _monster_.

A brow rose in mild surprise at her voice’s rising volume, the desperation colouring its edges, at how lost she seemed while fumbling to make sense of her own convoluted justification. And not for the first time did he consider what a number Dumbledore had actually done on her. How badly he had hindered her personal development, had forced her to grow into a mold to suit his own agenda— and that she was still trying to do his bidding even while the man was rotting in an unmarked grave. Voldemort slipped into the girl’s thoughts, bewildered that she was picturing the headmaster’s expression of disappointment. That damnable twinkle, the frown and the clicking of a tongue. A sight he was all too familiar with, one that marked his own youth, and had been personally spurned by countless times. And, ah—there it was again.

The word so clearly formed that it made his stomach churn, the after images of their encounter in the graveyard. Skeletal, bestial, disgraceful. Bordering more on a creature than a human, a product of a ritual gone astray, a consequence of unrestrained greed to regain a physical body. And yet, despite the attempts to correct it, to erase it through the face he currently wore, that portrayal of him lingered— still festered in the depths of her memories. A nightmare always hovering on the periphery, awaiting its summons to ruin the facade he was so desperately trying to maintain. But what more could he possibly do? What else did she need from him to finally forget that wraith?

There was a growl of frustration, teeth nearly cracking, and knuckles bleeding white as fingers curled into the edges of the bar cart for stability. He needed something to physically ground himself, to ignore the redhead warily hovering on the edges of his vision. To forget his own failures and shortcomings— a bitter truth hard to swallow that he was equally to blame for instilling such a black and white view. Dumbledore certainly held culpability for influencing the girl, for manipulating and shaping her into something so rigid. But, then again, so did he. After all, years were spent on a misguided mission to hunt her down— how many times had he been a star player in her nightmares after appearing to her as evil’s incarnate? Of course, that was all done before he knew what she meant to him. How precious, irreplaceable, and unequaled Harri Potter truly was. Yet, the damage was done all the same. An incriminating and condemning aspect of their past that served to poison the future, the antidote still out of reach. A sudden shattering sound, spiderweb filaments stemming from under his fingers, the glass giving way to an acrimonious might.

“Say it, Harri, I know you want to,” he ground out, patience slipping like sand between the gaps of spread fingers, crimson eyes tracing over the splintered fractures, “‘Monster’, that is what you were intending, was it not?”

Yet, despite the assessment, the correctness of it and the validity of her feelings, he refused to deny the reality of his existence, to apologise for his inherent nature— he couldn’t, “View me as one if you so wish, but know this truth— at least I am comfortable with it. I do not hide behind moral platitudes or false piety. I know who I am, what I am capable of, and that, pet, is my greatest strength and your most fatal flaw.”

A cold glint when his gaze rose to meet her own, unable to hold the silver tongue when faced with the sour reality of his past oversights, “You could be so great, a true prodigy. But instead, you hide yourself, your talents, your true disposition. And for what, exactly? To uphold the hopes, the wishes, the expectations of strangers you have never even met before? A foolish notion that you so insistently cling to, despite having been proven time and time again that I was never your only enemy.”

Unsummoned, the sorting hat’s evaluation came back to her— ‘You could be great, you know. It's all here in your head’. A stone in her stomach, the words twisting like a knife in an already infected wound, burrowing and refusing to leave her in peace. ‘He’s right,’ a disloyal whisper that she wished could be ignored. After all, how often had she lied awake at night, torturing herself with the concept of ‘what-could-have-been’? What would have happened if she had listened to the hat and let herself be sorted into Slytherin? Had never bought into the whole ‘Chosen One’ doctrine? How differently would things have turned out if she had just given in to her desires? It was her biggest flaw. She knew it, her friends knew it, hell even Dumbledore knew it— there was this ingrained desperation to be needed, to be liked by everyone. To secure their adoration, their affection, their love. So when it was revealed that she had a purpose, had a chance to actually mean something, she clung to it as a lifeline. It had become her only form of identity— ‘Harri Potter’ and ‘The Girl Who Lived’ synonymous, one unable to exist without the other. And, with that, a multitude of unintended consequences— hiding her core, one that she knew was undeniably dark, concealing her fears and weaknesses, refusing to allow herself the experiences that other teenagers were afforded. It all seemed stupid now, pointless, considering where she had ended up. ‘So why am I still holding onto it?’ 

Shaking hands raised the tumbler’s rim to a grim mouth, tilting it back to get the final dregs and trying to let the burn carry it all away. To drown out that stinging honesty of his assessment, the brutal analysis of her existence— because, at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. Harri knew she would continue to hold onto it for as long as she could, to try to keep the tattered remnants together. It was the only life she had ever known, and it was how those she loved saw her— what would happen if she had suddenly changed? If she gave up that mask, that pretense? ‘They’ll leave you,’ a nagging thought cautioned, heart stuttering to a stop and eyes squeezing shut to banish it.

“Though you may not want to acknowledge it right now, I know you enjoyed it. You enjoyed having my lips on yours, feeling my hands on your skin— you felt the bond, our connection, just as much as I did. And you took pleasure in casting that Unforgivable, in feeling the dark arts, in getting your revenge. There is no point in convincing yourself otherwise,” he pressed in a deceivingly gentle tone, sensing the arising conflict in her and deciding to act upon the opportunity.

“Do not deny it. Do not refuse us, Harri. We could be spectacular together. Shape the world to our liking, create new ones if we so wish. We could make those who have wronged us tremble at our feet, can rule together for eternity— just you and I. Let me teach you how to control that darkness, to help you find that balance you are so lacking, and grant you liberation. All you have to do is say yes,” there was almost a begging undercurrent to his voice, a hand lightly gripping a delicate chin and redirecting a wandering focus back onto him.

Voldemort’s thumb ran along the full bottom lip, tracing its shape, and feeling the softness of the velvet mouth under the pad. Crimson eyes searched emerald ones, a burst of hope in seeing the warring desire so clearly in them. He was willing the universe to make her say yes, to give in, to just accept it all for once without resistance. She had seen what they could be, what they could have— it was glorious and was being offered up on a silver platter without any trickery or deceit. And though he knew she wasn’t ready, that she was still holding on to things that should be left in the past, he still dared to foolishly hope for her consent anyways.

She watched him through hooded eyes, allowing the touch, the featherlight pressure on her mouth. He was looking at her with such longing, with such ambition and desire— it tore her in two. The life he was presenting was so different from the one she had always known, from the one that involved those closest to her heart. The one that her friends and family were fighting so vainly for her to return to. A harsh medicine to swallow— no matter the choice, in the end, someone would get hurt by it. And, logically, she was all too aware of what the correct one would be, what the most moral decision was. After all, he was on the side of corruption, embodied wicked ideals, and was drenched in the blackest of magic. She had seen his mindscape, had felt the extent of his defiled soul, had witnessed firsthand what the path he wanted to take her down would lead to. That glacial darkness was her destiny if she accepted him, and purposefully ignored Dumbledore’s adamant warnings.

But it was so hard to say no to him. Especially when he was looking less and less like a Dark Lord, like the boogeyman of her dreams. Standing before her was a boy with a clear longing in his scarlet eyes— one that she was painfully familiar with, could feel almost viscerally. A boy who was seeking out acceptance, belonging, the one that she had developed a kinship with all those years ago when her very heart was poured into a cursed diary. And how she loathed Voldemort for ever regaining that angelic face— after all, it would have been far easier to deny a serpentine monster. ‘Lucifer was beautiful once too,’ a thought that, for some reason, made her heart ache with a sharp pang.

Harri abruptly stepped back, shaking off the hand, the twinge in her chest only growing at the barest flicker of hurt in his gaze’s vivid depths. While it was quickly concealed by an indifferent mask, she had seen it all the same— and it did terrible things to her conscience.

“Tom,” it came spilling out unprompted before she could stop herself, mouth snapping closed at the shocked silence that followed.

This was the first time she had ever used his name, he realised, unable to fully prevent the surprise from reducing him to a stunned stupor. In the time they had been together, in all of the months and weeks and days, his horcrux had carefully avoided using any title to ever address him— not ‘Voldemort’, not ‘Dark Lord’, not ‘Your Majesty’, and most certainly never ‘Tom’. And he considered that he should be furious, should demand that she never use it again, or to utter that filthy word in his presence. After all, that was his vendetta wasn’t it? The entire reason for the anagram, for the moniker, for his ‘flight of death’? For the creation of ‘Marvolo Gaunt’? Yet, for the strangest of reasons, the way she had said it made it sound almost special— as though no other ‘Tom’ existed in the world. Hallowed, blessed, a sacred one-worded prayer, a mounting desire to make her say it again. He studied the slip of a girl, the pained expression, the furrowed brows, the determined light in a deathly green gaze. ‘She truly is something else.’

“We crossed a line,” when he hadn’t reacted, she pleaded for him to see reason, a struggling attempt to stay her ground, “A line that shouldn’t have even existed in the first place. This, whatever this is, can’t happen again.”

Harri took another step back, turning on her heels, suddenly unable to stand looking at the intensity in those burning crimson eyes any longer. She contemplated that this was his game— manipulating her, trying to make her give in through a pretty face and a facade of hurt. Or, at least, she hoped it was. The idea he was faking it was somehow preferable over this being real, over the notion that he truly wanted her at his side. That he was secretly stung by a rejection that he should have seen coming. ‘Remember who he is, what he has done. He doesn’t deserve your sympathy,’ logic reasoned, summoning up the images of the frigid blackness against her will. A shudder coursed through the thin frame, feet quickening in their retreat. Merlin only knew how much she craved space at the moment, to breathe in air that wasn’t tainted by him, to try to get some feeling back in the numbed limbs. To think, process, weigh her options without feeling his breath on the back of her neck. And she just needed to talk to someone, anyone, that wasn’t her guard, Narcissa, or the Dark Lord for once— images of a potion master came to mind, with coal eyes and lips pulled back into a sneer while giving the best of advice. Comfortable and familiar in his abruptness, in his harsh honesty. A mantra, an insistent line of thinking, ‘Go find Snape.’

“Alright, Harri, have it your way for now. It won’t happen again until you want it to,” he called after her, fingers twitching with a need to rush after those hurried steps, to make her stay just a moment longer— a last bid attempt to crumble that wall of resistance, to unrelentingly target its weak spots until it collapsed.

“But before you go, however, what should be done about the muggles? They are, after all, your relatives. It only seems fair that you get to decide their fate,” attention fixated on the spot between her delicate shoulders, pleased enough when the girl had halted in her retreat, that he managed to stall her for a second.

“Do whatever you want with them, I don’t care. Just don’t drag me into it again,” she finally muttered after a pause, cursing that she had entirely forgotten about Petunia and Vernon— memories of the atrocity that the stone walls had witnessed, a bone-white wand cradled in her grasp, a flash of red light. She wanted the evidence gone.

Trembling fingers hovered above the door handle, thoughts abruptly turning to her cousin. What was going to happen to him? The teenager hadn’t been in the cell with his parents, an unsettling idea that it was only due to him being at Smeltings when Voldemort had arrived. And true, he had been a terror— had tormented, taunted and mocked her throughout their childhoods. But did he deserve to die for such a thing? ‘No, he doesn’t,’ a resolute thought, a heaviness writhing around her heart at the concept of ending such a young life— 16 years old was too soon to die. She, of all people, knew that. Plus, truth be told, he was probably only going along with his parents’ actions, acting on example rather than out of inherent spite. Children were known to do drastic things in an attempt to earn approval, usually enacting out the extremes of learned behaviour. 

It was highly probable that he was going to be like her soon enough anyhow— an orphan. That would be plenty of punishment enough, yet another life ruined by the mercurial whims of a Dark Lord. Only difference would be, Harri figured, that her cousin would probably end up in the loving home of Marge. Would never be without familial affection, welcomed with open arms, and kindness. A bittersweet scoff at the thought that he, at least, might have a chance for some normalcy later on in life. At least one of them should. 

“And keep Dudley out of it,” she ground out, tone firm as she wrenched the door open, “He’s just a kid, after all.”


	51. Lily Potter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! My apologies for such a long wait-- I had just finished my own exams on Tuesday and had to spend the week formatting a syllabus for the class I'm TAing + trying to prep for another term! To everyone who is back in school already *or is starting here soon*-- I wish you all good luck and just know that I'm here suffering alongside you lol.
> 
> This chapter is a bit of a long one so I hope that'll make up a bit for the wait! I actually enjoyed writing this one quite a bit because I'm rather soft for any Snape and Harri interactions! I hope you guys will enjoy it as well (and if anyone gets the Greek myth references I've made throughout this chapter, I will love you forever! 😂)
> 
> As always, you guys are so wonderful and I can't thank you enough for reading long, bookmarking, commenting, subscribing, etc-- any you do to show this fic love! 💕 Honestly, you all make my day and I can't thank you enough for it 💕💕💕 
> 
> Enjoy! 💕

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“Tell me, Severus, how is my son doing? I imagine he must be quite busy, considering that the time to write to his own mother has seemingly escaped him,” the blonde witch questioned, an attempt to appear casual but a betraying keenness to the tone that made it sound quite the opposite.

In all of the years spent in dedicated service to his Lord, Severus had made it a point to avoid interacting in an even remotely congenial manner with the other Death Eaters. In his opinion, they were mostly an unsavoury kind of lot— ones that reveled in heated discussions of torture and upheld radical views that endorsed supremacy based on lineage. And as such, being marked by a half-blood pedigree, one that most of the aristocrats viewed as barely passable, he was often pushed down to the lower tiers of their established hierarchies. A scourge, a stain, a blight that was sneered upon whenever his back was turned. Neverminding how accomplished he was, or how highly the Dark Lord personally regarded him, Severus Snape was the constant outlier. An anomaly, someone to avoid as actively as though one might with a leper. The whispers, of course, didn’t help his case either— the accusations of being a traitor, of being Dumbledore’s personal lapdog, ready to be brought to heel by another master.

Though, in all honesty, it suited him fine enough. Being casted in the role of the reject and lacking a sizable repertoire of acquaintances was not so strange to him— and it was how he had been able to achieve so much in so little of time. While his comrades, a term used in the lightest of sense, were parading about, tittering over gossip, and flaunting their wealth during their weekly soirees, he was working. Brewing, casting, planning from the safety of the dungeons, only ever making an appearance in Voldemort’s court when it was deemed absolutely necessary. The solitary aspect of his life was how he had managed to stay afloat, had survived amongst the rabid dogs for this long, had become the youngest potions professor, and now headmaster, Hogwarts had ever seen. So, he figured, they could ridicule him all they wanted— because, in the end, it was he who had actually attained something of importance with his life.

Yet, despite the overall disdain and contempt that he held for the zealous members of the inner circle, there was one exception— Narcissa Malfoy. Though they had been amicable enough towards one another at school, the friendship had flourished in the decades following their graduation. The woman, he had found, was rather unlike the other followers of their Lord. Composed and alarmingly insightful, unwilling as much as he to engage in gruesome bouts of violence. She seemed to actually have a head on her shoulders, one that wasn’t completely empty, and with a mind of her own that readily formed secular opinions. So, all in all, her company was more than tolerable— and, though he would be loathed to admit it aloud, the closest thing to a friend that he could lay claim to. Plus, being around the witch was a refreshing change of pace from his hectic life, her refined manners, and dulcet voice a soothing balm that was sorely needed. So when an owl had arrived earlier that morning with an invitation for tea, a proffered intermission to the endless paperwork, Severus couldn’t quite find it in himself to refuse.

“He is doing well enough, I suppose,” was his casual remark, lifting the fine china to his lips and taking a contemplative sip, “There seems to be a falling out between him and Zabini, however, and he has given up on quidditch for the remainder of the year. According to him, there is no point in playing against anyone other than Potter.”

Narcissa lowered her own ivory cup down to its saucer, brilliantly painted lips thinning into a stern line, “Well, perhaps that is for the best. I, for one, never cared too much for that boy nor his mother— both were, truthfully, rather distasteful company. As for quidditch, I suppose it is understandable enough, and I can’t say that it’s surprising to hear. Did you know he only tried out because of her? Something about not wanting to be bested again by the girl, of all things.”

“The poor child. It’s difficult to even imagine how she must be feeling. What with her friends being back at school and all,” the words were accompanied by a sympathetic click of her tongue, a hand waving away the house-elf that had appeared to stoke the fire.

A noncommittal hum as a response, apprehensive coal eyes fixating on the oolong tea— the fragrant curls of steam rolling off the golden surface doing very little to inspire comfort. Several months had already passed since the raid, and the girl’s position within their ranks was one that still left him perplexed. Of course, he understood that she was their Lord’s ward— it was the why, however, that escaped his comprehension. After all, the prophecy still existed unfulfilled. Yet their new sovereign seemed far less focused on it now than he had in the past, brushing it aside as though it hadn’t been the driving force behind his tactics for years. It was entirely bewildering, perturbing, unnerving to see how quickly he had changed. Almost as much as seeing Harri Potter seated amidst the Death Eaters, dressed in finery suitable for nobility, and with the Dark Lord’s familiar, of all things, curled possessively about her shoulders. There were no words that could suffice in describing how tensed he was during the meetings, some irrational part of him just waiting for the serpent to extend its jaws to swallow her whole. 

As of late, stress had become his constant companion, sleep evading him nightly in favour of mulling over the exact same question— what was going to happen when she became of age and the legal guardianship was annulled? After all, it was common knowledge that their Lord had been using her name, her fame, to publicly support his mandates. That he had been using the obscene wealth in her vaults to bolster his campaigns and fund the costly reformations of his citadel. But those resources were bound to be cut off eventually. And it left the girl’s future murky, uncertain— and the only thing that he took solace in was the explicit instructions to teach her occlumency. How would it make any sense to go through the effort of training her if she was only destined to be a lamb for the slaughter? ‘But that’s exactly what Dumbledore had done, wasn’t it?’ He uneasily swirled the cup in his hands.

And though he was still seeing her on a weekly basis, it caused a sense of disquiet in him, all the same, to not see the girl romping about the stone halls or chasing after her friends with peels of laughter. In fact, he might even be inclined to agree with Draco’s sullen attitude— it was painfully tranquil without Potter around, almost to the point that it felt as though the castle was suspended in a stagnant state. A stasis, a doldrum, its spirit broken and eagerly awaiting her return. He might even go as far as to say that he missed her rebellious antics, her complete disregard for authourity, and her uncanny ability to seek out trouble. Of course, he would never admit to it— swallowing his own tongue seemed far more preferable in comparison.

“The girl. Is she coping?” he tracked a concentric ripple in his cup, attempting to exude an air of blasé disinterest.

“Within her means, I would like to think. The Dark Lord has charged me with teaching her etiquette, a task which, need I remind you, I take rather seriously. Though it has not been an easy endeavor by any means, she is a quick learner and possesses an inherent grace,” Narcissa eyed the potions master as she returned the saucer to the side table, elegant hands folding in her lap, “He has scheduled an appointment with a healer for her this Wednesday.”

“For a routine check-up, I was assured, and nothing more,” she added hastily, noticing the rigid lines of his shoulders, and the way those thin fingers had twitched ever so slightly.

Though his expression was still carefully smoothed over, the physical reaction had been telling enough. It was the sign that she had been searching for— and how it emboldened her, caused her generally held tongue to loosen. Severus, as prickly and hostile as he may appear on the outside, bore a sort of tender affection towards the girl, one that, with any luck, she could exploit. After all, she couldn’t be the only one to see what madness it was in keeping a teenager locked away from the world, to leave her at the continued mercies of a man that was commonly understood to be volatile. And this was her chance to pick the austere man’s brains— to see where he stood regarding any loyalties to Harri, and to, perhaps, enlist his help in making a case for the young witch.

“But Severus, I must confess myself rather troubled with our Lord’s attitude regarding her,” the blonde woman ventured cautiously, pale gaze drifting to flit cooly over the assortment of petit fours arranged on a silver platter.

“Narcissa, be careful. You know it is not in our place to pass judgment onto him,” a sharp drawl, coal eyes lifting in alarm before narrowing a fraction at her hidden meaning, “His temper and affections are mercurial at the best of times. And we both know it is all too easy to fall out of grace.”

“I am well aware of the dangers but I speak to you now as a friend, not as his follower,” her sharp retort, voice lowering to a strained whisper, “You care for the child as well, I know you do.”

A hand was quickly raised to silence his impending protest, lips pursed in admonishment, “Do not try to deny it. In all of the years you and I have known each other, how many times have you interceded on another’s behalf? And yet, when it concerns Harri, I know you do so almost readily.”

“The way he looks at her, Severus, it is unnatural. There is more to their relationship, something I can not claim to understand but something that unnerves me all the same. I worry that this obsession with her is only growing and that it is beginning to take its toll. She’s just a _girl_ ,” Narcissa muttered, ankles crossing and uncrossing, a testament of how ill at ease she was, “Perhaps you could convince our Lord to see reason and let her return to school?”

Severus reclined in the stiff chair, fingers interlacing into a steeple as his attention strayed to the arched windows. The powder blue drapes were drawn wide and the slitted rays of sunshine seeping through the panes were mild— an affirmation to the cusp of the ending winter and the beginning spring. A gloomy day that wholly suited the nature of their conversation, a sense of foreboding, and despondency in their deliberations. Unable to deny it, Narcissa’s shrewd appraisal was one that he found himself agreeing with— there was an aspect to their newly established connection that was not quite kosher in nature. And it definitely did seem that their Lord was more aware of it than the girl was, enthralled by her in a less than innocent manner. It was difficult to deny, especially from the way fingers always lingered— brief touches as a wandering hand brushed against her own, twisting in her hair, resting upon her shoulders. Inconspicuous little points of contact that, once noticed, were hard to ignore. And no small part of him was horrified to even hazard a guess as to what went on behind closed doors. A sudden memory of having been summoned to heal the impression of fingers, a nearly damaged windpipe— the frown appeared instinctively. He had witnessed the bruises painting her skin, her mind, the imbalance of her emotions. But surely their Lord had to have some shred of morality to know not to force himself upon her? Or, at the very least, some pride that helped curb such an appalling inclination? It was his hope, one that he desperately clung to rather than considering the alternative. 

“I advise him only when he asks. Attempting to do so without prompting is often disastrous, I have found,” he finally responded, tone flat as a sparrow flitted past the window, “In any case, he would be more disinclined than ever, I believe, to let her return to Hogwarts at the present. Not with the Order being active once again.”

“But surely he could be persuaded? Especially now that you are headmaster?” Narcissa pressed, leaning forward to place a featherlight touch on his knee, an imploring attempt to make him understand.

“It is not healthy, Severus, for a teenage girl to be kept locked away. Though try as I may to visit often, it’s a far cry from being enough,” the frown deepened at his lack of a response, exasperation creeping into her voice, “She should be with her friends, with her peers, and receiving social enrichment— not cooped up in a manor and isolated from the world. She needs structure to her life, a routine, a sense of normalcy, and, most importantly, some distance from him.” 

Severus opened his mouth to respond, to explain it was all out of his power, that there was nothing he could do, when the parlour door swung open. The pair snapped their heads towards the sound, blinking in mild surprise to see the subject of their conversation lingering in the frame. The redhead was, for a lack of a better description, chaos personified. A human embodiment of disorder in every sense of the word. The dress she was wearing had been one that spent the night on the floor, wrinkled beyond saving, with its buttons done up in haste— each one was mismatched, paired to the wrong slot. She wore no stockings, a leg precariously suspended in the air as she tried to properly slip on the mary janes, cursing as she struggled with their buckles. Auburn hair was left loose, frayed and unbrushed, as wild as the look in her glassy eyes. But what was most disturbing about the girl, her chest rising raggedly as though she had sprinted across the manor in a bid to outrun something, was her neck. Blooms of discolouration, the deep hue of wine, savage buds twisting, unfurling against the pale canvas. They wound their way up from under the collar, the visible few undoubtedly having more companions hidden away. And out of the corner of his eye, he could discern the tight expression of revulsion crossing Narcissa’s prim features, the glance directed his way speaking volumes of where her thoughts were heading.

“Professor— Mrs. Malfoy! I um, Barty said you would be here,” Harri fumbled for the right words, gnawing on her bottom lip as she took notice of the tense atmosphere, “Did I interrupt something?”

“No, dear child,” the blonde woman was the one to break the silence, a forced smile that bled over into her voice, “Severus and I were just having a chat, that’s all. What do you need?”

The younger witch’s gaze bounced to the cold affront of the potions master, his coal eyes glinting as they flickered across her appearance. She wasn’t entirely sure as to why she was even seeking him out— their past relationship wasn’t exactly the most loving of sorts. In fact, it was one born out of snarky retorts and cynical insults, of chiding exasperations and unfair punishments. Several times had he made it apparent that she was a headache to deal with, that her supposed disregard for authourity was the bane of his existence, that he loathed being her “babysitter”. Plus, he was the Dark Lord’s acolyte. He could very well go behind her back and tell Voldemort all of her darkest thoughts, her weaknesses, the soft spots in her armour for him to twist to his advantage. Yet, despite all of that, some small voice was encouraging her to find comfort and answers in the man she had known for years. To perhaps siphon off the sense of order, of calmness he exuded, and gain it for her own— Merlin only knew how desperately she could use it.

“O-oh, I see. Then, could I perhaps borrow Snape? Just for a few moments?” she questioned hesitantly, a thumb running over the opposite palm in an absentminded tic.

Blue eyes fixated on the action, the corners of the feigned smile slipping downwards at the sight. The girl was distressed, that much was obvious— and an unknown thing felt off about her, an echo of a sensation that Narcissa couldn’t quite place. The closest thing she could akin it to was a new sharpness in the redhead’s aura, a surprising tartness. Yet even that description fell flat, mind whirling as she tried to decipher what it could possibly be. But it didn’t quite matter, not in the moment— there was such upset, such disharmony in the teenager, and she could easily guess who was the cause of it all. After all, those marks etched onto the cream-coloured skin spoke loudly, enough so to create a coherent story. Though she would be lying if she said it hadn’t stung that Harri asked to speak to Severus, rather than her, the woman couldn’t find it in herself to deny the request. Certainly not now, and, perhaps, not ever— it was impossible to. Especially when considering everything the witch had been put through, what such a vibrant life had been reduced to in the most recent months. Rising from the settee, she headed for the door, a gentle hand placed upon a thin shoulder.

“Borrow him for as long as you would like, Harri,” the vaguest attempt at a reassuring squeeze, a cutting look directed over her shoulder towards the dark-haired wizard, “We were just finishing up anyways.”

Severus pensively studied his old student, fully aware of the look that the Malfoy woman had sent his way. There was an off-balanced air about her, something not quite right, almost wrong— and the inability to place its origin persisted like an insatiable itch, an unrelenting irritation. In the background, Narcissa had slipped from the room, the soft click of the door mostly going unheeded. And of its own accord, his attention drifted shrewdly over the darkening marks dotting her throat, unwilling to spend too much time debating as to how she could have possibly gotten them. Instead, he settled for observing the taut shoulders, the anxious disorientation swimming in her eyes, the bottom lip bitten raw. ‘Not quite right, indeed,’ his thoughts echoed the initial assessment, index finger rhythmically tapping against the scroll of the armrest.

“Potter, what can I do for you?” he spoke up first, brow arching at the indecisiveness, at the way her mouth opened and closed as though she wasn’t quite sure of the answer either.

“I-,” she trailed off, uneasily shifting the weight from one foot to the other.

And then green eyes were inexplicably drawn to the open windows, an overwhelming sudden ache, a pining, a yearning, “Can we go for a walk? Outside?”

His gaze followed hers to the pulled drapes, landing on the gardens in the distance before curiously drifting back to her. The sudden longing, and desire sparked a brightness in those vivid eyes that he, suddenly, realised that he had not seen in quite some time. A renewed sense of hope, a look that he wasn’t even aware he had missed on her— it was startling to comprehend. Narcissa’s earlier words echoed, her pleas to see that the Dark Lord’s overbearing influence was starting to take a toll, stomach tightening at the thought. Severus rose slowly from his spot, a silent acquiescing nod for an answer.

* * *

* * *

They were strolling side by side in the spiraled hedge garden— the one in which, Harri was quick to recognise, her bathroom vanity faced. The snow was mostly melted by this point, sparse blades of grass peeking through the few scattered pockets of white, the trills of birdsong overhead promising warmer weather. It was all strangely idyllic, blissful, inspiring a boundless sort of joy. How long had it been, after all, since she ventured outside? And not just on the veranda overlooking the Manor’s impressive acreage but actually outside? Feeling the give of the thawing ground underneath each step, being surrounded by the dulcet calls of nature, breathing in crisp air that froze her lungs in the best of ways. Barty had attempted to trail after them but Severus sent him off with a sharp glare and a clipped drawl, claiming that he could handle a wandless 16-year-old— and how she could hug the dour man for it.

A weight had been lifted, Atlas relieved of carrying the celestial heavens, a moment of fleeting respite without having someone watch her every move. And though it was, by no means, a temperate summer breeze, arms were thrown wide in welcome of it all the same. Nature was coaxing the sins out of her, stowing away the atrocities in the towering brambles of the hedges, making her conscience just a touch lighter. Allowing momentary peace, the meek sunshine her own version of Lethe warming her skin, robbing her of the ability to recall. Smoldering red eyes, the lingering heat of searching fingers, and the fervent confessions— all of it seemed so distant, left behind in the ostentatious walls of the mansion and fading with every step that carried them further into the labyrinth.

Severus watched the redhead as she traipsed further on ahead, his pace slowing to grant a sense of freedom. A beautiful illusion, a lovely pretense— but still one nonetheless. It was a bitter reality that was becoming harder and harder to refute— Harri Potter was never going to be free again. Long gone were her days of moving without a guard in her shadow, of being able to go to Hogsmeade on the weekends, of roaming about Diagon Alley. A damning truth that made itself known as the days bled into weeks, the weeks into months. However, had she ever been? He had seen her memories, had witnessed the way her entire life had been spent, bound in servitude to one person or another. First, it had been to the Dursleys, then to Dumbledore, and now? Now, he considered, it was to the Dark Lord— though she bore no mark on her arm to outwardly indicate it. A little dove with its wings clipped, shoved into a gilded cage, and taken out only when deemed appropriate. And how it left him with a sour taste to know that he endorsed it through his plotting, had been the one to put her in the hands of another master.

A chime of delighted laughter interrupted his musings, the corners of his mouth twitching with a threat of a smile. The witch had crouched down to delicately cup the tender bud of a rose— the lone survivor from the frost, intent on blooming before its time. An auburn head tilted towards him, a bid to come closer that barely registered, his feet disinclined to budge. The way those green eyes glittered in excitement, the beaming grin playing upon a shapely mouth, the gentleness in tapered fingers— it was entirely uncanny. A graven image of a dead woman immortalised, a ghost continuing to live on from beyond the veil. Completely debilitating, truly paralyzing. And, by all accounts, it could be considered a form of madness in how willingly he involved himself with her child— a girl that he truly had no claim towards, yet one he still felt all the same. Constant torment, an ache in his chest whenever she seemed less like ‘Harri’ and more like ‘Lily’. Though, he also knew he wouldn’t want it any other way, that he would never abandon her— regardless of how many painful memories were conjured. Content to linger in the background, he basked in the glow of her simple happiness, minorly relieved that her earlier stress seemed to be ebbing. 

It was the first time she had seen a flower in months, a sight that, for the strangest of reasons, elicited a wave of euphoric anticipation. And no matter how much she enjoyed the snow, the coziness winter always brought, spring was, secretly, her favourite time of year. Spring brought with it the resuming of quidditch, and longer days spent outside. Of scratchy sweaters being packed away, and pleasantly mild showers. The kind that was almost warm in nature, that turned the air sweet with gentle drops that tickled her skin. And the greenery. Nature finally waking up after the long sleepy months, plants unfurling from under the sheets of white, new life abounding. Though as sentimental as it may be, there was something awe-inspiring, she found, in the way the flowers always managed to come back— no matter how deeply they were buried under the ice and cold. The ultimate symbol of rebirth, of resilience. A comfort to know that such beautifully frail things could survive, no matter the harsh circumstances. And though Petunia had viewed it as a punishment, a chore, as busywork to saddle her niece with, Harri honestly loved tending the gardens the most. It was the one thing she never fully minded, always saving the task for last, the damp dirt under her nails a welcomed distraction. And how did her aunt love her namesake—.

‘Petunia,’ a sudden flash of the gaunt woman, throat constricting at the unwanted memories from the dungeons. Beady eyes watching her in hatred, in distrust, the grating screams, the smell of burnt flesh and bile. The endless crashing tides of pleasure, choking on the deluge of rapture, her lungs filled with the scent of sweetened smoke. The way Vernon’s cries for mercy sounded almost mellifluous in her ringing ears. Hands abruptly dropped from cradling the rose, an irrational fear crossing her mind that she was corrupting something so pure, so innocent. It was all coming back— why she had sought out Snape in the first place, why they were in the gardens, why she had fled from the study. A nightmare that her feet couldn’t carry her far enough from, always catching up in the end, the naivety in thinking that taking a walk outside would be enough to forget.

“I did something terrible, Professor,” her voice cracked, the vision of the tightly closed blossom distorting.

Snape watched in alarm at the sudden change in demeanor, at the tears springing to emerald eyes and clinging stubbornly to the corners of fanned lashes. He could only blink, a deer caught in headlights when that misted gaze turned on him. There was raw desperation in their depths, rendering him unable to think properly when faced with such a defeatist expression. It wasn’t like her, none of this was— Harri Potter was supposed to be rash, foolishly undaunted, stronger than anyone had the right to be. She never broke down, never accepted being crushed under Fate’s heel. And in all of the years they had known one another, he could count on one hand, precisely, how many times he had seen her cry. It was jarring to witness, an uncomfortable reminder of how young she truly was— a fact so easily overlooked when faced with the deeds and epics surrounding her existence.

“I tortured him. My uncle,” somehow, verbally admitting to it made it all the more real, the words pouring forth, overflowing without a stopper in place, “I just felt all of this hate, this anger, and it was so easy to just give in.

Dark eyes widened marginally, a cold wash of disbelief passing over his skin. He had wondered what became of the Dursleys after that night, torn between a morbid curiosity and a nauseating need not to know. And Severus hadn’t thought to ask his Lord, choosing to believe that whatever happened to the couple was karmic justice at that point. To keep his involvement in their kidnapping from bogging down his already impressive list of sins. But to hear she personally had a hand in their punishment? It was strange, eerie, so deviant from her character. 

She became obsessed with studying her splayed fingers, half-expecting them to be covered in blood, in rot, in filth, her words coming out in a rush, “The crucio came to mind, and it was so easy that I didn’t even think. I don’t feel regret for his suffering, for using it. Not for him but for _me_ . That’s the fucked up part. I regret slipping because I think it woke something up in me. Something that I can’t get it to go away, no matter how hard I try. But it felt so good in the moment that I just— with _Voldemort_ of all people. And then I willingly gave them to him to handle because I couldn’t, wouldn’t—.”

“There’s something wrong with me, Snape,” she strived to voice her jumbled thoughts, a lump resting in the hollow of her throat, “I can feel it. There’s something in me that’s vile, and I’m losing control of it.”

“What if-,” it felt as though she had swallowed sandpaper, a grating sensation that scraped her insides raw, green eyes lifting from her hands to the heavens, “What if I’m becoming evil?”

There was a fundamental truth that could be universally acknowledged when it came to Severus Snape’s character, his most fatal flaw— he didn’t process nor handle emotions well. Especially not when they involved the tears of others. In the few times he had interacted with Draco as a child, it had been his policy to flee in search of Narcissa at the first sign of an impending tantrum. And that was with an infant, one unable to wipe the drool from his chin— the problems that spurred him to tears wholly unsophisticated and usually remedied through a pacifier or a stuffed toy. So what was he supposed to do when faced with a complex moral dilemma? One that was blatantly tearing the girl apart? He, himself, barely held enough answers to solve his own issues, let alone even attempting to sort hers out. And his coping methods couldn’t exactly be considered the healthiest— suppressing it, and throwing himself into his work until he could forget. But what he usually banked on wasn’t applicable to her situation, a far cry from being helpful. And, quite truthfully, the confession was shocking. It was so far from her character, should have been impossible for someone with a light core to cast an Unforgivable with the ease she admitted to. Unless—.

Surprise overtook his expression for a fraction of a second, the slightest parting of his mouth, the lifting of arched brows. ‘She isn’t light in nature,’ a dumbfounding thought, one that left him mystified. He had been so sure that the girl was, that she had taken after her father’s magic to fall in line with Dumbledore’s ideology. Yet, the little things that never quite added up suddenly clicked into place with startling clarity. Her struggles to perform in most light-oriented classes, despite flourishing in Defence. The way dark creatures and cursed objects seemed to naturally flock to her. Not to mention the ability to speak parseltongue, the phenomena as rare as it was dark. Harri Potter, the champion for the light side was undeniably anything but. And perhaps it could explain some part of his Lord’s fascination with the girl, why he was going to the extent of educating her. An unexpected gem, a diamond in the rough that could be polished under his guidance, an unexpected asset to his cause. The final blow, Snape figured, to Albus’s memory and influence— the unthinkable affront of turning his Chosen One into an apostle suited for the dark. 

‘So that change about her from earlier, it was her magic shifting,’ he mused, trying to process what it all meant, how he possibly couldn’t have recognised it before this moment. True, he wasn’t the most gifted, or sensitive, when it came to signatures, but even he should have been able to see the signs— unless there was something in place to block its detection. And wasn’t it just a sickening realisation to come to? One that urged him to be physically ill— she had been hiding her core this entire time. How badly he wanted to demand answers, to curse aloud, and to pressure the girl into explaining why she would do something so life-threatening, so idiotic, as purposefully suppressing something she couldn’t control. ‘Best to calm her down first,’ logic advised, uneasily watching as the first few tears slipped down waned cheeks. Every thought was a whirlwind, stumbling, and churning as he tried to formulate a plan, to figure out what to possibly do. And no small part of him desperately wished that he had stayed home, had ignored Narcissa’s invitation. Because, as it currently stood, he was tossed into a riotous sea without a lifeline in sight, plunged out of his depths and comfort. Abruptly materialising in the forefront of his mind was a flash of red hair— the exact same question asked under the privacy of a willow tree, jade eyes shining with a similar sort of lost tears. It was an undeniably miserable memory, one that wrenched and twisted his insides— yet it was all he could think of.

“Your mother,” the words faltered, Snape having to clear his throat to find the strength to continue, “Your mother had asked me the same thing when she discovered her own predisposition to the dark arts.”

Warily taking a half-step closer, the girl’s expression one of bewilderment, he latched onto the brief lapse in tears and continued, “What I am about to tell you now is precisely what I had said to her years ago— your magic does not make you inherently good or evil. It is your actions, more than anything else, that defines you as such.” 

Harri could only stare owlishly as the revelation sank in, a sudden throbbing in her temples. Her mother, the kind-hearted and gentle Lily Potter, had been a dark witch. And how strange of a concept that was? Difficult to even entertain— in the few photos she possessed, or in the even fewer stories she heard, Lily always seemed like the poster child for all things pure. Virtuous, angelic, uncorrupted. But to know otherwise? It certainly threw her for a loop, made her mind reel. Yet, perhaps, there was some hope to be found— the woman hadn’t become a psychopath or a murderer, hadn’t turned evil or depraved. So maybe the same thing could happen to her as well? ‘Except, she probably never cursed her defenseless relatives,’ a bitter whisper, heart sinking in the wake of the inner deprecation, pangs increasing. And that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? The daughter served to exist as a poor imitation of the long-dead mother— the woman had had both self-control and discipline, was inherently good in every possible way despite her magic. She had been whole, a singular soul that remained unadulterated, undefiled, just as nature always intended— the exact opposite of her child.

A hand appeared in her line of sight, fingers extended in a silent invitation for her to take. Glancing upwards, green eyes flitted across a tensed expression on a sallow face, thin lips set into a frown with a tightness evident in the corners. A thin palm unthinkingly slipped into the proffered one, allowing herself to be hoisted off the thawing damp ground.

“A dark core, Harri, should not be automatically equated to being ‘evil’,” he surmised, the words from all those years ago coming back unbidden, his mouth seemingly moving from muscle memory, “It simply means that you are ruled by your passion, and emotions, more so than anything else. That is it. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“But you don’t understand,” she protested, dropping her hand from his, and trying to make him see that this went beyond her magic’s inclination— that something was truly wrong with her, “I _tortured_ him, Snape. Without hesitation, I did it. And I _enjoyed_ it.”

He regarded the girl, drinking in the dismay shining wetly in her eyes, how vehemently she was refuting his attempts at comfort. ‘She doesn’t want to be consoled but condemned,’ a passing assessment, one that he intimately understood, could commiserate with. And while it had originally taken him by surprise that she used an Unforgivable, the more thought that was given to the idea, the less surprising it was becoming. In her mindscape, there had been such hatred towards her relatives, such vitriol, that not lashing out would have been more unbelievable. Plus, it wasn’t the first case of someone suppressing their magic only to lose control when it was finally acknowledged— it was how obscurials were created, after all. As for the regret she alluded to that featured his Lord— well, he was familiar with the effects dark casting had on adults, nevermind teenagers. And those marks adorning her neck, rubies embedded into pale skin, were rather telling. ‘One thing at a time,’ rationality advised, desperately wanting to avoid opening Pandora’s box and delving into the precise details of what had occurred between them.

“I have spent years in service to the Dark Lord while also being at Dumbledore’s side. As such, I have seen courses of action carried out by both that could be classified as ‘evil’,” a soft drawl, memories resurfacing in a blur as his feet carried him further into the maze, “Whether you choose to believe my words or not, they are the truth. You, Harri, are far from it. A single action borne out of a lack of discipline and passionate anger is not enough to mark you as such.”

Harri gaped as he disappeared around a manicured hedge, a rising urge to argue that he was completely wrong. Everyone was. To scream that he had no clue, that he was blissfully ignorant of the truth of her existence— a bastardised stand-in that had taken the place of the real ‘Harri Potter’, a lie in the making. Because the second air had filled her lungs after evading death, she had been marked as an ‘evil’, one that infringed upon the universe’s sacred laws. And she just wanted to have someone finally agree with her, to understand what unholy sort of creature she was. But yet, for whatever reason, the girl couldn’t bring herself to say any of it. Instead, her mind refused to move on past Lily, obsessively clinging to his earlier words. It was disconcerting to mull over, a perturbing notion. Her mother, whom she had only heard snippets about, a witch once remarked on as being ‘uncommonly kind’ by Remus, had been drawn to the dark arts. And how the desperation to know more caught her off-guard— what did others think of her, how did she overcome it, did she ever give in? Harri considered that this was Snape’s roundabout way of distraction, of curbing her existential dread by dangling a carrot just out of reach—and if so, it was definitely working. Stubbornly wiping the tears away with the back of her hand, the girl took a faltering step, and then another, before breaking into a sprint.

“Wait— you said my mother had a dark core,” she breathlessly called after the headmaster, jogging to catch up and just mildly surprised with how long his strides were.

“So I did,” his casual remark, firmly fixing his gaze on the path ahead and hurriedly rounding a corner.

Harri frowned at the silence that followed suit, tongue running over her canines as chilled fingers plucked the nonexistent lint from her dress. The topic of her parents had always been an odd one— because, in truth, they were complete strangers. She only knew what they looked like from a tattered few photographs, a dusty album she received at age 11, while their personalities were only vaguely constructed from stories. And though she knew people expected her to miss them, to cry over their deaths, she couldn’t always bring herself to. It was a well-hidden secret, unwilling to tell even Hermione out of caution that she might be viewed as cold, distant, apathetic. Sure, she longed and ached for the idea of parents but it was hard to mourn them as people specifically. Unlike those who expressed their condolences, she hadn’t grown up around them, built lasting friendships or memories. Hell, she didn’t even know their birthdays or their favourite foods. And how difficult it was to play the filial daughter to unknown entities, a half-smile, and a sheepish nod the only things she could manage. And while it had been the common consensus that her biggest vendetta against Voldemort stemmed from their murders, that was a half-truth. After all, she had been a baby when it happened— an infant without the functioning facilities to truly remember either of them. Yes, she fostered a sense of resentment for being deprived of a life of ‘what-could-have-been’— but that was mostly it. In fact, it would be more accurate to say her grievances with the Dark Lord rested in his recent actions— in the deeds that directly affected her, and the ones she could actually remember.

Green eyes traced over the headmaster’s stern profile, the somberness, the unsmiling mouth. Out of the couple, James was the one, she supposed, that she knew the most about. And that was mainly due to the recollections of Sirius and Remus, tales regaled to her of their time spent as the ‘Marauders’— stories that she mostly didn’t understand due to the copious amount of inside jokes. Rarely did they ever mention Lily— and, when they did, it was usually about the woman chastising them for their immaturity, or finding a loophole to get them out of their messes. Quite frankly, it sounded as though her mother had been the buzzkill of the group. James was brash, daring, a Gryffindor through and through. Reckless with wild black hair, proud attitude and an excellent dueller, who played as a Chaser and took the form of a stag more often than not. Compared to that, Lily was plain. Kind and graceful, yes, beautiful and gentle, but nothing extraordinary. However, this was the chance to finally get something more than “you have your mother’s looks''. To hear straight from the proverbial horse’s mouth what kind of person she had truly been.

“My mother,” she mumbled in apprehension, not missing the way Snape had stiffened on her periphery, “What was she like exactly?”

For a moment, Harri feared that he wouldn’t respond. That he might keep those pale lips stubbornly pressed closed, apparate away to leave her stranded in the middle of the maze, or perhaps demand that she never ask him about the witch ever again. After all, it was common knowledge of his affair, his love, his infatuation with the woman— and it couldn’t have felt amazing that, in the end, Lily had chosen James Potter over him. However, much to her mounting surprise, the potions master had given a resigned sort of sigh, pausing mid-step as though trying to find the right words.

“Your mother was an exceptional sort of witch,” Snape mused, coal eyes lifting to the bleak sky, the clouds a never-ending sea of gray.

“She and I were always in a competition to come out on top during our studies, and she certainly provided a challenge. An absolutely brilliant mind that thought of things I could never have. Yet, even during the times I bested her, she always made it a point to congratulate me,” recollections of a blinding smile, jade eyes crinkled in their corners, “And she had the most peculiar habit of seeing the best in people, even when she probably shouldn’t have. Far too forgiving and far too compassionate at the worst of times. It was her biggest fault yet greatest virtue.”

He could sense an eager gaze fixated upon him, and Severus just knew that, if he looked over, it would be to a ghost lingering at his side. And part of him wondered if Lily was truly there with them amongst the towering brambles— if it was her phantom hands that he felt pressing down about his shoulders, the whisper of her breath on the back of his neck. That, perhaps, he had summoned her from beyond the grave in voicing aloud memories that ought to have remained buried. Or maybe she was finally called forth by someone reminiscing about her, heeding his daily prayers to come back to him. And there, a few feet ahead, was an unexpected handful of leaves. Burnt orange, carried on by the wind, curling playfully and lifting towards the heavens by an invisible draft— a sign, maybe, an answer to the silent question regarding her presence. A foolish interpretation, a wishful notion. And yet, he clung to it all the same, choosing to believe. How long had it been, after all, since he had talked about her? Actually _talked_ and not just relived the past in his head? 

“You look so much like her, though you are probably tired of hearing it. There truly isn’t a lot of your father in you,” an idle comment, a bittersweet sorrow that coiled about his dully beating heart.

And it was true— the girl resembled so little of James that he often wondered if she had been formed solely from Lily. If she had been fashioned from clay and given life through her mother’s rib, had been birthed through magic rather than natural conception. It was damning down to the point that they could be considered sisters, twins. The same quirk of a mouth, the same brows, the same beauty mark under their chin, the differences becoming harder and harder to spot with age. It was just in their colourations that they were distinct enough— the daughter’s hair a touch more muted, deeper, richer than the mother’s. Yet, it was made up tenfold in her eyes. Those eyes, curse green, vivid to the point of being unnatural. Lily’s gaze was never that unnerving, that haunting to hold. But still, it was easy enough to overlook the variance upon a first glance, undeniably detrimental to anyone’s sanity. After all, how many times had he seen the teenager on his periphery and had to do a double take? Almost nearly called out the wrong name? Had felt as though he were a bystander left to rewatch the past all over again— her sorting into Gryffindor, her lounging under the still-standing willow by the lake, her trudging to Hogsmeade through the drifting snow. It was as though Fate felt it appropriate to taunt him, ridicule him, by parading her about— only to snatch her away, yet again.

Harri blinked, soaking in his words with rapture. While it, normally, frustrated her to have her entire existence defined by the wishful thinking of those who missed her parents, that they tended to overlook she was her own person, hearing the appraisal from Snape was different— for some reason, it didn’t quite bother her as much. She followed his somber gaze further down the labyrinth, watching the dancing leaves in companion silence— remnants of the last autumn that, by all accounts, should have long since decayed. It was mesmerising, captivating, the way they had seemingly chased one another. Lifting higher, higher, higher, until— they vanished, swept away over the tops of the hedges.

“Did you know her wand was a willow? She would have been an excellent healer, in spite of her core,” his voice had become a soft whisper, watching the magical vision of autumn disappear, “It was a dream of hers, in fact, to become a mediwitch. That, and to be a mother.”

‘Yet neither of those were ever fully realised,’ a surge of sorrow, long strides resuming. Twenty-one years old, a life that should have been full of opportunity, extinguished before anything substantial could come out of it. And hovering a few feet behind him, legs working furiously to keep up, was one aspect to her lifelong mission— motherhood experienced for a transient burst of time. A passing second. But even in those fleeting few months, she had proven to be stronger than Leto herself, had readily made the ultimate sacrifice so her child could live on.

“The Dark Lord actually attempted to recruit her once, long before you were born. Alongside your father. Both were quite powerful but she-,” he trailed off, interlacing his fingers behind his back in an attempt to stave off their shaking, an uncomfortable weight settling between his ribs, “Lily was something else entirely. She held such immense power yet she refused to truly use it, never in anger or grief. She always stayed her wand no matter the circumstances, hindered by, I imagine, the fear of her potential.”

Harri very nearly stumbled on her next step, green eyes widening a fraction in unfiltered surprise. ‘Voldemort tried to recruit them?’ It was a perplexing idea to even consider— her parents as followers of the Dark Lord, bearing his mark and bending the knee in loyalty. Especially so since her entire understanding of the couple was built around the Order, as freedom fighters in open rebellion against him. And she wasn’t quite sure which was more bewildering— the Potters as hypothetical Death Eaters or the fact that a certain red-eyed man had more ties to her than she had guessed. That his life, his reign, his rise to power all went beyond the scope of her involvement, stretched far past their prophecy, their relationship. A theoretical presence in her life before she could even draw in her first greedy mouthful of air.

“Even though I had attempted to make her see reason, to accept her magic’s predisposition, I believe she never truly did. There is a saying, after all, for those who hold willow wands— they only belong to those with immense insecurities, no matter how well they attempt to hide them,” Snape pointed out, turning a sharp left and ignoring the girl’s calls to slow down.

“It tore her apart when she discovered what her core meant, and, in the end, it crippled her,” thinned lips twitched into a frown, fingers tightening behind his back, “She became so preoccupied with what others would think that she never even let herself try to achieve her dream of becoming a healer. Afraid of her own magic, the quality of her life was diminished by the inability to accept the truth, while her potential wasted away. Her grades suffered, she became hesitant to use even rudimentary spells, to let anyone see it. And, on that night, when the Dark Lord came to destroy you, she hadn’t even lifted her wand to defend herself.”

“I mention this to you, Harri, as both a lesson and a warning,” his steps had finally halted, the entrance to the maze reappearing in the foreground, pockets of golden light punctuating the clouds overhead, “You can not hide from your true nature. Any attempt to do so will lead to an existence of regret and ruin.”

The girl glanced uneasily towards the embellished iron gate that marked the beginning of the spiraled garden, the Manor looming in the distance a silent threat. Arriving back at the entrance brought forth the worries that she had forgotten amidst the professor’s brooding, stomach clenching at the thought of what was awaiting her in the villa’s vaulted halls. The labyrinth was completed, the time to wake up nearing. Swallowing thickly, her gaze drifted from the polished white stone to the grim lines on the man’s face. He was supposed to be her distraction, the one who was to give her an omen, a sign, of what to do next— the wise adult that held all of the correct answers that still saw fit to evade her. And she wasn’t ready to give up his company just yet, to return to the study, to the glowing eyes lying in wait among the shadows.

“Professor, please,” she begged, eyes desperately flickering over his smoothed expression, the single raised brow, “Everything is coming apart at the seams and I don’t know how to stop it. I _need_ you— tell me what I have to do to fix it. To make it all go away.”

His attention drifted downwards to the pale hand latching onto his forearm, a desperate bid to not let him leave. A scared child clinging to the nearest grown-up for security and safety. Unsummoned, Narcissa’s earlier warnings had begun to loop, ominous words that spoke of the toll that was being imparted onto the girl with each passing day. And Severus found himself inwardly cursing the Dark Lord, Dumbledore, the whole lot of their world— each party sharing in the guilt for placing such pressure onto a teenager in the first place. He had failed her. They all did with their continuous worship, their never-ending expectations for her to save them, the mold that they were trying to force her to grow into. A bitter bile crawled up his throat when those green eyes had trained themselves on him, lost and searching for guidance where none was to be found. She was so ill-prepared for everything, so restricted, so sheltered that he couldn’t help but wonder what Albus’s true intentions even were. Had he always planned on killing her in the end— either by his own hand or by letting her eventually succumb into an obscurus? After all, he had to have known how damaged her mind was, how fractured her core was becoming as it tried to outgrow its shackles, restless in never being fully embraced. And the man had been too smart, too great not to see the ill-effects. But yet, the headmaster let it continue on without a care— and he, himself, had remained ignorant, once again blindsided by a misplaced faith in the wizard.

“Then heed my advice. Lean into it, learn from your mother, and do not relive her mistakes,” he removed the hand, a brief moment where thin fingers cradled hers, a fleeting squeeze, “Accept it, and heal yourself before it’s too late.”

“Take what he is offering, and use it to your advantage. You are a smart girl, and I know you are far more capable than you tend to let yourself believe. Forget whatever foolish ideas Dumbledore has put into your head. Light, dark, none of it truly matters if you wind up dead—or worse. And continuing to deny yourself will only lead to a path of destruction and agony,” he fought to keep his tone level, nearly failing at the distress that crumpled her expression inwards.

“I implored you once to survive, and I do so yet again. Survive him, survive yourself, and continue to endure,” he took a half-step back from her, no small part of him wishing he had something better to offer than empty platitudes, “You are strong, Harri, stronger than any of us. So pull from that strength, and fortify yourself. Accept your birthright, take ownership of it— do not continue to fight something you can not change. Rise up from this, turn the tide, and show the world you will not be beaten.”

There was a lapse, a hushed silence, and Severus feared the worse. She had quickly turned away from him— but not before he witnessed the conflict pinching her expression. And there was a newfound urgency in him, one that was suddenly spurring him onwards. A desperate need to make her fully understand. To not let the girl fall to the same fate as his beloved Lily, to make her grasp that a life disconnected from magic was one hardly worth it. To help clear away the misguided poison that was rotting her mind, fogging over her judgment. She needed to see that this was dangerous, that continuing to deny and to suppress was doing far more harm than good. That her mind, her balance, was already alarmingly unhinged, that she was toeing a precariously thin line. He opened his mouth to say something, mind whirling, gears turning, when she had interrupted him.

“Alright,” a quiet mutter, Harri turning on her heel to face him, jaw clenched, “I’ll do it. Because I respect you, I’ll listen to your advice and get his help.”

His attention shifted about her face and, not for the first time, did the girl render him speechless. Where there had once been conflict, passivity, crippling dismay now held the opposite. Resolute, determined, steadfast, a look the witch was famous for— an unexpected outcome, one that he didn’t quite know how to respond to after not seeing it for so long. Flames flickering in her gaze, chin lifted stubbornly high, slender shoulders squared— the afterimage of a proud phoenix appeared in his mind, entirely unsummoned. The rays of the setting sun had broken up the earlier oppression of grey, a radiant force that bathed them in a pleasant warmth. And how her eyes were molten in its wake, less green and more resplendent— as though she had been crafted in a forge, made anew in Helios’s own likeness. _This_ was the Harri Potter he had always known.


	52. The Sword Of Damocles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, it's been a while! I'm so sorry it's taken this long to get this chapter up-- school has been hectic with the online transition. I'm currently TAing a course as well so it's been an adjustment (especially since I'm in a different country). To all of you who are in school at the moment-- I hope you're doing well and just know we are all in this together! 💕And to those who aren't-- please stay safe and healthy out there! 
> 
> Also, I want you all to know that this fic will not be abandoned! It may take me a bit to get chapters up until things settle down but I will always update as soon as I'm able! 
> 
> This chapter is a bit longer than usual-- I was going to split it up but seeing how long I've made you guys wait, I just decided to keep it whole 💕 I hope you guys enjoy it
> 
> And would it even be an update without me taking the chance to gush about you guys? Seriously, thank you to everyone who is reading along and showing interest in this fic! Seeing new comments, bookmarks, kudos, etc when I log in is the best present ever 💕 You are all seriously amazing, and thank you for pushing me to write + continue this story! 
> 
> Enjoy! 💕

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Harri found herself pacing outside of the study’s double doors, mulling over Snape’s advice, reflecting on it. Frankly, it was sound. And as much as she was disinclined to admit it, he was right— her time was running out and she needed to find a way to bid for some more before everything unravelled. Even now, it refused to subside. Something was shifting deep past the layers of muscle and sinew, a sting sharpening incrementally as the hours passed. The Sword of Damocles swung overhead, held aloft only by its fraying rope— a poetic testament to preordained destruction. Her hand flexed experimentally, sparks jumping between the crevices and feet halting in their restless march.

He was in there, she knew it, could _feel_ it— another startling development just recently discovered. Apparently, tapping into an overbrimming reservoir of suppressed power also brought with it a heightened awareness. It left her tattered, hypersensitive to it all. And his— well, it was distinct. Electrifying, a buzz in her system, and a vibration in her marrow. Sharply intoxicating in how it coated her tongue, cloying in its savage call. And though she would have loved nothing more than to avoid his company, she also possessed enough self-awareness to recognise that he was her best bet— her _only_ bet. After all, who better to know how to reign in the darkness than the person that had been, quite literally, borne from it? Plus, hearing her mother’s ill fate, how fear had dictated her entire life and ruined her ambition— it was a wake-up call, a morbid future she was keen to altogether avoid.

With an embittered groan, unwilling fingers curled about the silver handle, pushing it inwards before she could deign to do otherwise. A momentarily blinding brightness greeted her— the study was set aflame in a golden light, the usual dimness flooded by the setting sun.

“Ah, Harri. There you are,” a baritone voice commented, shrouded by the brilliant veil, “I was beginning to wonder where you had run off to.”

She stumbled past the doors, rather grateful when one of the drapes had sprung itself free to offer the slightest reprieve. Green eyes blinked furiously to clear away the afterimages of incandescent shapes, twisted etchings that persisted from even behind closed lids. And there, idle fingers trailing along worn spines, an ever-growing stack of tomes floating after him, was Voldemort. He had twisted to glance over his shoulder, an amused smile tossed her way— wonderstruck appreciation rendered her mute. Filtered streams of light seeped through the parted curtains, a glowing halo illuminating his dark crown, an aureole of radiance. Unlike how it had attempted to overwhelm her, the sun almost seemed to lovingly bend to him. Kissed his skin, worshipped at his feet, clung to the lines of his body in reverent glorification. The Morningstar, the Lightbringer, less of a Devil and more of a seraph tragically casted out from the heavens. It reminded her of the stained glass renditions in the windows of a cathedral, a holy image of the divine captured. Truly, the beauty of him was unfair, arresting, only serving to be calamitous to her wearing sanity.

Awareness came trickling back when he had smirked, the left corner lifting higher than the right, a brow arched in a silent question— ‘Are you going to say something or just stand there?’ Harri’s mind fumbled for coherency, tongue a deadened weight and mouth far too dry. Just when the beginnings of a thought began to formulate, it slipped away just as quickly under the weight of those darkening scarlet eyes. They clung to her throat, a slow rake that purposefully flitted from one mark to another. A discomforting sensation that left her helpless to move, paralysed by the fervid attention. And she could have sworn that the room was dimming, shadows rising chaotically to overtake the sacred glow. But then it tapered off, disappearing so abruptly that she could have chalked it up to strung nerves had she been unaware of who the man truly was— had not witnessed, first hand, the suffocating void of his mindscape. The burning in that damning gaze had been tempered slightly by a cheshire grin, a row of teeth revealed in unpremeditated delight.

“I must say, that’s quite an interesting choice of attire,” the amusement bled over into his voice, another book added to the hovering stack.

Confusion unfurled, a tug of a frown as she tried to understand what he was possibly alluding to. The cotton dress was one that he had picked out, and while it, admittedly, spent the night in a crumpled heap on the floor, there wasn’t anything outlandish about the outfit. It seemed that her puzzlement served to only spike his unfounded glee, Voldemort finally deciding to humour her by raising a finger pointedly to his chest. _Tap. Tap._ The casual action engendered further bewilderment, brows drawing together as her eyes slid downwards. Understanding promptly gave way to embarrassment upon noticing, for the first time, that the buttons were all mismatched— a few weren’t even properly closed to boldly reveal glimpses of pale skin and lace.

“Oh, bloody hell,” a muttered curse, heat flaring on her cheeks as she whirled around, thoroughly appalled by the fact that she had been walking around with a half-done up dress and no one saw fit to even mention it.

And this is exactly why she hated pureblood fashion— after all, muggle jumpers didn’t have this problem. Her fingers fought with the small pearl buttons, a losing battle that caused her frustration to mount at their lack of dexterity. Groaning, thin hands reached up to scrub agitatedly over her face, running roughly through her hair only to snag on a knot in the process. Far too many words were tumbling over in her mind, fighting to gain her full consideration, a dizzying blur as they tried to force themselves upon an uncooperative tongue. It made her temples throb.

“Look, about earlier,” she exhaled unevenly through her nose, shifting her weight to the heels of her feet, “I shouldn’t have lost control like that. Shouldn’t have kissed you. So, just, uhm— sorry.”

There was a rustling of movement in the background, the sound barely registering as she fumbled to get the clasps undone. It wasn’t until the firm lines of a body had pressed up against her, the intrusive solidness of a towering frame, did she realise that he had moved closer. Owlish eyes blinked in a stupor, breath catching as hands, far larger than her own, snaked over the swell of her chest. A staggering mixture of alarm and anticipation struck Harri at the way those nimble fingers had begun to deftly undo the mess she had created. They moved with fluidity, as though it was completely natural for them to do so, unnervingly composed as cream-coloured skin was further exposed with every undone pearl. And though she knew she should be horrified that he was undressing her, the current of rising suspense overruled such a thing.

She watched, a woman possessed, as wandering hands paused at the end of the row of buttons an inch or so below the sternum— the neckline of the dress fell away, putting on display the more than questionable lace bralette. With morbid fascination, Harri couldn’t help but note the differences between them, their juxtaposition blatant with his hands so close. The Dark Lord was paler, a rosiness existing in her complexion that he entirely lacked— the evidence of her humanity, of heated blood in her veins, of flesh entirely her own making and not a product of a resurrection ritual. Yet, oddly enough, it suited him. A startling realisation to come to that the lifeless colour was the perfect match— as alabaster and smooth as the marble he was seemingly carved from. And just when she had begun to think he would take it a step further, would continue their earlier tryst, he hadn’t. Instead, shapely fingers began to correctly redo the buttons, unhurried in their pace.

Harri was unable to stifle the deflating sense of disappointment. And wasn’t that just the most confounding thing? After all, she had been mortified when they kissed, had been the one to draw the line, to run away. Absentmindedly, her bottom lip was worried, emotions a swirl of confusion that left her off-kilter. But such contemplation was interrupted when a blunt nail had purposefully dragged against the center point of her ribcage, breath hitching at the mild sting. Up until this point, he had been careful to avoid actually touching her bare skin, almost as though waiting for permittance to do so. Now, however, fingers skirted brazenly across the heated flesh, a smug form of self-satisfaction seeping over into their bond. And the girl found her attention fully consumed in watching them trail languidly over the soft dip of her cleavage, the delicate spot at the beginning curve of her bust. The touch, though featherlight, was distracting, one that rendered her mind muddled and knees lax— oxygen caught in her lungs, rising up as a pocket that was painful to swallow around. And without warning, a bright burst of copper danced over her tongue, only just registering that her lip had been bitten raw at some point. By far, the strangest thing about this all was that she could easily end it— could hold herself true to the earlier protests about boundaries, step away to reject his touches once again. So why didn’t she?

There was a delayed blink and the emerald cups of the bra were concealed from sight, the polished buttons righted to their correct positions. Yet, despite finishing their task, those hands had chosen to linger upon her collarbones— their thumbs idly tracing along the ridges, the hollows, the indentations of them. Gaze fixed resolutely on the door, Harri could feel the threads of her control slipping, snapping. ‘You need to focus,’ logic tried to reprimand, finding it all too easy to get lost in the relaxing lull of him, the quiet moment where she could feel nothing but the rise of a solid chest against her back in a consistent rhythm— a stark contrast to her own. For in the confines of its cage, her heart was mayhem— ventricles clenching erratically to pump out molten blood, an unkind cadence that made the world tilt. When lips brushed against the shell of her ear, she jolted instinctively.

“Never apologise, Harri. Especially not for that,” he whispered, crimson eyes flashing at the flighty measure of her pulse.

His horcrux had allowed him to touch her, hadn’t withdrawn, or demanded that he leave her be— and how elating that was. Because, despite the empty protests, it served as an indication she was coming to understand that they could have something truly glorious, godly, divine. Dare he say it was almost progress? And it hadn’t escaped his notice either that there was a change occurring in her center, an awakening that he had been acutely fixated on ever since she held his wand. The disquiet was ever-rising— and it was only a matter of time at this point, a fact they were both keenly aware of. Relinquishing the touch, Voldemort continued to loom over her, eyes glittering with an avid interest to see what the girl would do next. Part of him anticipated that she would flee the second the opportunity was presented, would come to her wits and spout some further drivel about the immorality of this all— but no such response ever came. It was entirely silent. The spiteful words were lacking, no pushing, no self-deprecation, or venomous loathing.

“You said you wanted to help me, right? To teach me?” she mumbled, actively forcing the tension out of her spine and shoulders..

“I did,” he agreed lightly, riveted as she took a step forward.

A slow inhale, an even slower exhale before she turned around, glad to have purchased some distance between their bodies. It wasn’t exactly far, she could only imagine what it would look like if someone barged in, but it was just enough to not feel him molded against her. Green eyes drifted up from tracing the wood grain of the floor to meet his own, chilled arms crossing over her torso in a protective manner— not exactly because she feared him but more so that she needed something to ground herself with. Fingers burrowed mercilessly into the tender spot beneath the final curve of her ribs, a distracting pain to help force out the words. ‘Survive this. Survive him. Survive yourself,’ Snape’s impassioned plea echoed, latching onto it when her resolve began to falter.

“Fine,” the agreement was heavier than expected— a weight that hadn’t quite rolled off her tongue as confidently as she had hoped. Instead, it came out as unsure, wavering, fearful. 

Nails dug in deeper as she spoke through gritted teeth, “Show me how to control it then. How to use it. But no more books, no more readings.”

 _“Show me,”_ the demand was insistent, slipping into parseltongue without fully meaning to.

Voldemort considered the redhead in mild surprise, almost not quite believing that he had heard her correctly. And he contemplated if she knew what was being fully asked of him, what being taken under his wing, his tutelage, truly would entail. After all, he never did things half-way, wasn’t satisfied with mediocre performances, and held the highest of standards for proficiency. But those blazing eyes of hers, the way they shone in determination, with an inner fire, an unsung challenge— she knew. For a brief moment, his attention shifted down to the bled white knuckles, the unsympathetic pain delivered onto her own flesh in a form of penance. How alive that spirit of hers was. ‘Absolute perfection,’ an offhanded appraisal, creeping tendrils of greed burrowing into his consciousness at the notion of her giving herself to him. His horcrux would finally come into her birthright, would undergo the metamorphosis required to become his equal, to stand at his side— and it would all happen under his guidance. _This_ is what the heavens had divined for them, how they had foreseen their futures when they made that silly prophecy. She was going to become a queen suited for the darkness, his own Persephone to rule alongside him in the eternal night. 

“No more books,” he agreed softly, hellfire eyes glinting in untempered ambition.

* * *

* * *

“Are you sure this is safe?” a muttered question lost amidst the swell of deafening chatter.

Hermione only registered the words when an insistent tap on her shoulder followed, her contemplative gaze drifting from surveying the packed room to the boy perched on a lopsided chair. His face seemed even paler than usual, the smattering of sun-kissed freckles dotting his sloped nose standing out in vivid contrast. And those normally bright eyes were reduced to a hazy blue, clouded over with unease. It had been a few weeks now since Dumbledore was declared found— a water-logged corpse dredged up from a tangled mass of kelp, almost decayed past the point of recognition. The _Prophet_ disclosed it as suicide, a tragic combination of a copious amount of whiskey and a midnight stroll about the Black Lake on unsteady feet. It was a lie, of course. A load of utter rubbish. The months spent submerged in the reservoir had made it impossible to discern the true cause of death, but it was easy enough to guess the Dark Lord’s involvement. And while there hadn’t been any photos, thankfully, to supplement the headline, her imagination nonetheless managed to conjure up images that haunted her dreams— skin tinged blue, deteriorated and spongy, half-moon glasses obscuring hollowed sockets. This was all a devastating nightmare, one that she had been privately considering for some time now but refusing to voice aloud— their leader was gone.

Understandably, the subsequent days brought with them a renewed frenzy, a desperate scramble amongst their ranks. People were vying for a plan, recovering Harri skyrocketing to the utmost priority now that the question of Dumbledore’s whereabouts had been solved. And yet, every single hypothetical scenario traded in the cottage’s cramped kitchen always ended in a rather spectacular blaze of a dumpster fire. Truth be told, they were doomed. Despite the measly few recruits reeled in by _The Quibbler_ , most of them fellow Hogwarts students, the Order was lacking the sheer numbers required to even consider storming Malfoy Manor— and that was to say if Harri was even still there. Which is precisely how they found themselves here, openly defying the public decree that no memorial services were to be held. _‘ A considerate and merciful thing,’ _ according to Skeeter,  _‘to avoid drawing excessive attention to the struggles of an ailing mind that had finally given in.’_ It was cold, dismissive. Entirely unbefitting to the status of a man like Dumbledore. But the underlying caution was clear enough— attempting to host a public wake would be in direct conflict with the compassionate wishes of ‘His Majesty’. So when the rumours had begun to circulate that there was to be a private vigil anyways, only a handful of people were actually expected to show. Not _this—_ certainly not this.

Wizards were shoved into the too-small back room of the tavern, a mass of bodies that smelt of grief, bitterness, and sorrow. Once distinct voices now blurred into a jumble, a thunderous clamour that reverberated within her skull. A headache was forming and the muggy air, a sweltering heat brought on by the continuous exhales, didn’t exactly help. While Hermione was thankful that Aberforth had agreed to host the wake at the Hog’s Head, she also found herself forlornly wishing it could have taken place outside instead. But there were dangers in being out in the open, especially after the mishap at Grimmauld Place. The Dark Lord was searching high and low for them— the mandatory wand scans at all entry points and the newly-implemented sentinels in Diagon spoke volumes. Though it was easy enough to deceive the scans, thanks to foreign-made wands registered under common aliases, avoiding the patrols was altogether a different story. In Percy’s latest letter, he confessed that the division was now being headed by Yaxley and was, consequently, littered with zealous Death Eaters that knew their faces. Polyjuice could have taken care of that— if not for the fact that the goblins had been coaxed into extending Gringotts’ disenchantment system into the shopping district. Though she would never say it, Hermione was begrudgingly impressed, and vastly frightened, with their sovereign— after all, just what kind of power did the man hold that could lure the goblins to his side? For centuries, the creatures remained resolute to endure as a neutral party. Yet, he had somehow convinced them it was worthwhile to comply. Chilled fingers plucked the lint off her tattered maroon sweater— they were backed into a corner, no one could deny it. And yes, it felt a touch underhanded to disguise a vigil as a recruitment mission but there was some soundness to the idea. After all, if anyone was inclined to join the Order, it would be Dumbledore’s closest friends.

“No. It isn’t. But it’s the best chance we have,” she finally admitted, tracking as an older man stepped up to the makeshift podium— a wine barrel with a single lit candle resting on top, the ivory wax slowly beading downwards. 

“Some of you may know me, some of you may not,” the wizard cleared his throat, voice reminiscent of gravel, “I’m Aberforth Dumbledore, Albus’s brother. To everyone that has shown up today, despite the rubbish that’s being spouted in the papers, you have my gratitude.”

He waited until the scattered mutters of acknowledgment quieted down, fingers drumming pensively against the wood, “Anyone who was close with my brother knew what he was like. Strong-minded. Difficult. Such an overwhelming sense of moral obligation that it sometimes made you want to punch him.”

Aberforth chuckled under his breath, as though amused by a private joke, before his shrewd gaze swept about the room, “We can all agree that Albus was a man who sacrificed quite a bit for our world. While we weren’t on the friendliest of terms, even I can see that. He rose up against Grindelwald when no one else would. And then, mere decades later, did the same with You-Know-Who. He took the position as Chief Warlock, despite having always hated politics. He became the headmaster of Hogwarts, dedicated years of service to the safety and education of your children.”

“My brother was anything but the feeble-minded person the Prophet has been trying to make him out to be,” his congenial tone had turned hard, flint-like, supported by a few sparse jeers of agreement, “He would’ve never killed himself, especially not now. It was far from an accident— it was _murder_.”

The aging man raised his voice to compete with the scandalised uproar, spine straightening to draw himself up to his full height, “There’s only one person that could’ve been capable of such, we all know it. Most of us here in this room lived through the rise of the Dark Lord, knew the terror of those times. And we all foolishly thought it was done for when he disappeared 16 years ago— but he is back. He’s hiding behind the title of sovereign and sitting in a throne that shouldn’t even exist in the first place. Albus saw the signs, uncovered the truth, and was killed for it.”

There was a beat of silence, a blessed second of quiet— then cries sharpened to a crescendo, layers of disbelief, of outrage, of accusation. A mob overbrimming with dismay as the reality hovered in the foreground, all too readily ignored. There were calls for proof, for the evidence to back such an appalling claim— a few demanded to know how he had the gall to insinuate murder or to suggest the revival of an unspeakable evil. Some had risen from their seats, faces alarming shades of purple, while others remained immobile, graven looks darkening their expressions. Aberforth only fed the flames by contributing his own shouts to the increasing mayhem— a blur from the side of the podium, Remus emerging from the restless crowd.

“I can assure you,” the werewolf said, hands splayed in front of him in a desperate attempt to pacify the enraged masses, “That Aberforth speaks truthfully on this matter. The Dark Lord is very much alive and living under the guise of ‘Marvolo Gaunt’. Many brave witches and wizards are gathered here today who can, and will, readily testify to it.”

He tilted his head imploringly towards Sirius, more than relieved when the man had left the worn bench to limp over. Speaking plainly, Remus detested speaking in public. More often than not, he found that strangers were predisposed towards being guarded around him. But Sirius? He could charm just about anyone— could cajole even the most off-putting of individuals with that inherent grace of his and warm demeanor. A hand landed on his boney shoulder, a firm reassuring squeeze.

“The Dark Lord _is_ back. Just last year, he infiltrated Hogwarts, tampered with the Triwizard Tournament, and abducted Harri Potter to use in a resurrection ritual. After the public channels were hijacked to play his broadcast, Dumbledore spirited Harri away to the muggle world for her own safety,” the crowd had become somewhat demure under the coaxing authourity in Sirius’s voice, grey eyes sharp and chastising, “Now, we can either spend all day accusing one another of lying or we can accept it and _move on._ ”

He waited until those who had jumped up from their seats settled back down, taking note of the disgruntled murmurs susurrating in the background, “Those of us who fought in the first war against You-Know-Who are already familiar with Marvolo Gaunt’s true character. We know what he is capable of, what he can do, and the remorse he lacks. Countless of innocent people, _good people_ , were murdered under his explicit orders— and it’s happening again. This all began with Scrimgeour’s disappearance and won’t end with Dumbledore’s death. Open your eyes.”

“Several Wizengamot members who opposed the bill for his sovereignty have already disappeared, only to be found as mutilated corpses weeks later. And can any of you honestly claim that the Azkaban mandate was justified? High ranking prisoners, those who committed _war crimes_ , were pardoned under the premise that a decade and a half with the dementors was sentence enough,” several members of the audience had turned to whisper uneasily to their neighbor and Sirius clung to it, “He’s back. Only difference is that this time around he’s stronger and far more dangerous.”

He considered the ripple of unease that was spreading through the room, attention drifting anxiously over to Remus. His friend was wearing an expression of doubt— a feeling that Sirius was trying his best not to succumb to. By all accounts, it was extraordinarily reckless of them to impart such sensitive information unto complete strangers. After all, it was entirely possible that someone could run off to report an illicit meeting at the tavern if they took offense— a meeting that, theoretically, had been banned. Plus, the Dark Lord did have the public’s favour on his side— people loved his carefully constructed persona despite some of the questionable bills. But they needed more pledges and _fast_. 

As it currently stood, their ranks were mostly composed of members that the Dark Lord undoubtedly already knew off— those who had survived him initially, the tattered remnants of the First Order. And it wasn’t exactly difficult to hazard as to who made up the other half— family of the originals and friends fiercely loyal to Harri herself. Unrecognisable followers were required, ones that could evade immediate detection. They needed _fighters_. Skilled adults who had long since completed their schooling and, hopefully, had some real-world dueling experience. Because while it was touching to see teenagers pledging themselves to the cause, it wasn’t the largest confidence booster— especially when compared to the bulk of their enemy’s forces. Lord Voldemort had the darkest of wizards backing him, loyal soldiers whose teeth were sharpened on the whetstone of battle and bore the scars to prove it.

Sirius cleared his throat, chin squaring resolutely, “Dumbledore saw this day coming and spent years of his life preparing for it. He personally trained Harri Potter to face You-Know-Who in the eventuality that he would be unable to. And as much as it pains me to say it, that day is now. Albus may be gone but there’s still hope to be found.”

Calloused hands slipped into his trouser’s left pocket, fishing out a golden coin to hold it high up over the crowd. The hazy light filtering in through the dirt-caked window caught the metal, an irresistible glinting that was hard to ignore. A couple of the fixed stares shone in understanding, some glazing over with wonderstruck awe— they were already acquainted with the fabled phoenix medallion and of what it represented. Ambition surged through him, a pipedream optimism that perhaps today wasn’t a lost cause.

“The Order of the Phoenix has been reborn,” Sirius intentionally placed the coin down onto the upright barrel, the dull click of metal meeting wood amplified by the sudden quiet, “And Harri Potter is still alive. She is the key to defeating the Dark Lord, to righting our world, and has been taught by Dumbledore to do exactly that.”

“He’s aware of this fact as well and has taken her hostage to prevent it from happening. Though we know where she’s being kept, we can’t do this alone,” grey eyes trailed after the few that had risen from their seats, fighting through the throng towards the exit— it was a loss that was to be expected, of course, once the true purpose of the meeting was revealed. Yet a sizable enough portion had stayed behind, countless eyes gleaming in deliberation.

“If you want to honour Dumbledore’s memory, then join us. Join the cause he died believing in until his very last breath. Help us to win this war,” Sirius spoke with a fervent plea, hope sparking in his chest at the scattered slow nods of agreement. 

* * *

* * *

“You look surprised,” Ron had sidled up to her side, the two teenagers lingering near the back wall in casual observance.

Hermione gave a tuneless hum in response, absentmindedly twirling a coil of a curl to abate some of the pent-up nerves. Ron’s assessment was right— she was surprised. More than shocked that Sirius’s hastily concocted plan had actually come to fruition, that he managed to entice people into staying. A queue had been formed, wizards shuffling forward to sign their names upon the Order’s ledger, their allegiances a settled vow between drying ink and yellowed parchment. More able bodies added to their forces, more capable wands— ‘and one step closer to getting Harri back.’ Soft brown eyes studied the free-spirited smile of Sirius and the good-natured nod of gratitude from Remus every time another hand picked up the quill. History was being made in this dingy pub, a revolution in the making— and there was the strangest rush of elation at the fact she was bearing witness to it all. But such excitement, however, was mitigated with an equal sense of trepidation. What would future historians record down in their scrolls of this moment? Would this become their turning point— a great win for a larger impending victory? Or would it signify a gruesome end still yet to come? 

There was a flash of copper threading through the crowd, a waifish frame pushing others out of its way— a futile attempt since there was, physically, no place for them to go. ‘Harri-,’ formed before she could stop it, muscles tensing to rush forward. But then reality came crashing down when she saw a glimpse of the face. The jawline was all wrong, squared rather than heart-shaped, the skin heavily freckled and the shoulders set too wide. ‘Ginny.’ A half-smile crossed Hermione’s face, a striving effort to mask the pang of settling disappointment. Lately, it had become a nasty habit to mistake the two girls whenever her attention wandered, a knee-jerk reaction to call out the wrong name— the cruelest trick played by a desperate mind. From her periphery, Ron was waving lazily, shouting out the youngest Weasley’s name when it became apparent that his sister was searching for them. It was surprising to even see her brave the crowds alone. After all, these days found Ginny tucked away in her mother’s shadow more often than not, a precaution Molly had taken to after the Grimmauld incident.

One minute things had been normal, relaxed, ordinary— only to be replaced with the queerest sensation of something being amiss. It was as though the world had been slowed, an excruciating passing second, a blur of colours stretched too long and too thin. A jagged blade ripping through the fabric of time, the sharp hiss of oxygen being sucked inwards that left a ringing silence in its wake. The calm before the storm— chaos descended.

Men in austere black robes came into existence amidst the middle of the room, unwanted presences that disrupted the orderly line of pledges. It took a second for their forms to solidify, screams and panic ensuing as spellfire was traded without fanfare or warning. And layered upon the chords of terror were the sickening thuds of flesh meeting age-worn floorboards, the rapid succession of cracks, the jarring splintering of wood— a symphony of utter mayhem. The air was charged with magic, the slanted walls painted in an array of brilliant hues. ‘He found us.’ Hermione ducked in narrow avoidance of a wayward curse barrelling her way, a few hairs singed in the process. With little time to recover, numbed fingers reached for the wand that had been unceremoniously shoved into the back pocket of her jeans. A snap of her wrist sent a stupefy into the heart of the crowd— a silent prayer accompanying it that the spell had found a correct target among the sea of writhing limbs. 

Someone’s shoulder clipped her own, panicked instruction bubbling up in her throat for Ron to get their Order coin ready— owlish eyes, a tanned face that was foreign to her. It took a second to become aware of the fact that the Gryffindor was missing from her side, tongue nervously running over chapped lips as she peered helplessly out into the mob. ‘Ron— Where are you?!’ Feet stumbled blindly in their search, knowing it was wise to leave but refusing to do so without him.

The leg of a chair sailed through the air, blasted off in the process of someone’s rushed parry— Hermione hastily rolled to the ground to dodge it. She landed roughly, knees smarting from cushioning the fall and palms burning as splinters dug into their softness. It was too small of a room to properly duel in, too confined of a space to counter without potentially backfiring on their allies— the perfect place to lay a trap. And with only one exit, they were all herded in, cattle awaiting the inevitable slaughter. As though wanting to further prove the point, a hurried passing heel came down forcefully across the back of her splayed hand. There was a revolting snap, her raw scream rising to contribute to the discord of battle. The spare wand tumbled from a blood slickened grip and even through the gore she could see the fingers were warped to a nauseatingly crooked degree— a telltale sign that the fine bones were shattered. An involuntary spasm coursed through them when she cradled the broken hand to her chest, an urge to retch at the resulting pain. All instincts were advising to get off the floor, to seek out the safety of the wall from the frenzied masses, to escape the trampling feet. Unbidden, a hiccup of a sob escaped, blurred vision bouncing about the blinding flashes for the sight of a familiar ginger boy.

“Hermione!” Ron called out, voice thinned by panic, whirling around frantically.

They had been separated from one another when the Death Eaters first arrived, the tide of displaced bodies carrying him away in their hysteric bids for escape. Screaming out her name again, he shoved past the crowd, broad shoulders doing little to help fight the current— a fish trying to swim upstream, a valiant but doomed endeavor. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a striking glimpse of red hair. His sister was standing shakily in the center of it all, an endless series of reducto curses illuminating her skin a vibrant teal. Latching onto the collar of a stranger blocking his path, he wrenched them aside while ducking to evade a jet of red light streaming overhead— a silent thank you sent to Harri for her merciless quidditch drills.

“Ginny!” the yell was hoarse, vocal cords strained from overuse, “Go find Mom!”

Ron paused only long enough to watch as his sister spun in confusion, her mouth dropping to a surprised ‘oh’ upon seeing her brother linger a few paces away. Satisfied with her slow acquiescing nod, he waited until she fled from sight before dipping back into the crowd. All around him was a ceaseless display of spellfire, ear-piercing screams, and acrid fumes— never quietening, permeating every sense. It was different reading about these kinds of things in textbooks, a surreal disconnect that derived from playing a bystander— and he decidedly preferred Binn’s droning lectures over the actual experience. Throwing up a hastily constructed shield charm, a yellow jinx fizzling out against it, the only clear thought in his disorderly mind was ‘how’. How could this have happened? How could the Death Eaters have known where they were and caught them off-guard yet again? 

But there, huddled down against the wall was the one person he had been desperately searching for— suddenly, those answers seemed like they could wait. With little care as to who he elbowed in the process, Ron forced his way over, sinking to a knee in front of her. Anxious eyes drifted of their own accord down to the mangled mess of a hand, instantly regretting that they had. A heavy swallow, stomach lurching, he forced his attention up to a waned face instead.

“Mione! It’s okay, I’m here,” he clumsily tried to comfort her, unsure of what to do.

“Ron, the medallion,” she muttered, tone pinched with agony as her forehead fell against his shoulder.

He blinked once at her in a stupor, nose scrunching in confusion as he tried to piece together what she could possibly want with their Order coins. And then it hit him, somehow having forgotten all about their intended purpose during the earlier frenetic search. Shaking fingers dug for the medallion stuffed deep into his pockets, the portkey stashed away only to be used in the most harrowing of emergencies— and, he considered, that this would certainly fall into that category. The background noise was punctuated by sharp pops as wizards on either side began to flee— some by activated coins, some by black mist.

“Ignis te invoco,” Ron struggled with the incantation, blue eyes flickering uneasily up to the hellish scene about them.

And that’s when he saw it. There, a few feet away, his own sister struggling against a vice-like hold, legs kicking and thrashing. Her arm was wrenched behind her back, a man in a silver mask her captor— the tip of his wand was pressed against the vulnerable spot of her jugular, skin denting under its applied pressure. Ginny’s screams were both muted and gut-wrenchingly clear at the same time, brown eyes wide in fear and holding a glassy sheen. Shock had been introduced to his system in the way of a gripping coldness, the vaguest sense that his thundering heart was about to give out, to explode. ‘Her wand. Where’s her wand?!’ A panicked gaze flitted over their forms, a disturbing revelation that it was nowhere to be found. Ron willed his feet to work, to get up, to go rescue her— instead, he found himself rooted to the spot, the phoenix coin flaring with heat in his sweating palm. The soft features of her face were crumpled inwards with terror, the baying cries for their mother standing out even amidst the mayhem.

“Gin—!” he didn’t even have the time to scream out her name before the portkey activated, the maelstrom of the tavern filtering out into tranquil silence.

* * *

* * *

It had been a few weeks since they started their lessons and Harri, though reluctant to admit it, was making progress. An alarming amount to top it off. The initial suspicions that Voldemort would make an excellent teacher were confirmed tenfold, the irrefutable evidence resting in her newly-found abilities. As a result of endless practice, rudimentary wandless spells were now easy enough to come to her— things like summoning nonmagical items from across the room or turning on the lights a second nature at this point. And though the more complex ones required concentration, such as conjuring up bluebell flames, she found that her magic always responded eventually. It was a truth she loathed to acknowledge but being under his tutelage had proven to be far more useful than all 6 years spent at Hogwarts. There, she had been confined to theories, books, essays— assignments that weren’t exactly of greatest importance in the real world. But here? Here, it was hands-on and practical—a ‘sink or swim’ sort of approach that suited her just fine.

And, much to her immense shock, he was being abnormally considerate. It wasn’t just his knowledge and skill that made him a great mentor— it was the fact that he understood her. Voldemort was strangely attuned to her limitations, somehow always long foreseeing the creeping exhaustion before it made itself known. Every lesson was centered around targeting endurance and weak points, a tailor-made plan while never pushing too far. True, the man made clear his expectations in a strict authoritarian manner, nitpicking over the smallest of things, and never withholding commentary— but he never forced her beyond her body’s capabilities. And she was grateful for the adjustment period in which dark magic use was minor— though she dreaded that was coming to an end sooner than later. ‘He really should have been a professor,’ an idle thought as deft fingers swept the auburn strands back from her face, tying it up with a strip of black cord. 

Green eyes lifted to trace over his relaxed silhouette, glinting with mild appraisal from the cover of lengthening shadows. He was making the usual rounds about the training circle, the elder wand sweeping in wide arcs as protective wards shimmered, strides languid and measured. It had been a shock to discover such a room tucked away under Malfoy Manor, a cavern carved into the earth. Though, as Voldemort explained, having found her thunderstruck reaction amusing, most estates had their own dueling arenas. Originally, Harri had thought of it as a waste of resources, an unnecessarily superfluous expense— yet another display of an obscene amount of wealth being spent only because it could. However, after the destruction resulting from their first few lessons, she was now rather grateful for its existence. Somehow, she sincerely doubted Narcissa would completely forgive her if she went about accidentally setting the silk drapes aflame or engendered another crack in the ivory plaster. The woman had been sour enough about the art gallery incident, nevermind the slipup in the dining parlour. And though she was getting more adept with control, her magic did still have a tendency to flare up or react mercurially without forewarning— at least stone walls didn’t catch fire. Nonetheless, it was an odd feeling to be down here, to know this was where a young Draco was tutored— a fond smile at the memory of the blond, prim and proper, bowing with impeccable posture during their second-year duel. It had made her clumsy attempt to return the gesture look pitiful. Shifting the weight from one foot to the other, the toe of polished dragonhide boots dug deep into the fine sand. What was he even doing right now? All sorts of possibilities were entertained— perhaps he was in potions? Or, maybe, practicing down at the quidditch mound?

“Speaking plainly, very few wizards truly understand what magic is,” Voldemort broke the stifling silence, sheathing the elder wand and jolting her back to the present, “The common consensus holds that it’s an inanimate force within our bodies. But it’s these kinds of ill-conceived outlooks that hinders potential. Magic is alive. Sentient. All of the greatest wizards ever recorded in our history understood that.”

Narrowed crimson eyes flitted across the beginning tells of confusion dawning on her face, hands interlacing casually behind his back. His horcrux was talented, he had no qualms about readily admitting it— she was strong, her talent vast. Having personally trained his own top generals, Voldemort had developed a keen eye over the decades for spotting any underlying aptitude. And the girl was a sponge— greedily soaking up information while always simultaneously looking to the next task. Yet, despite that raw ability, the ease in which she was mastering the spells, there were still notes of discord, a grating disharmony at her center. Something wasn’t connecting, wires were crossed to the wrong outputs. And her progress would be meaningless if fear continued to override everything else. It was a pity, a frustrating oversight— one that he was more than determined to correct. 

“Most believe magic is inherently loyal, that it would never betray us as its master. Once again, that is a fool’s notion. Magic has a will of its own,” he could see the gears beginning to turn in her mind, an endearing attempt to try to beat him to the point— and how it thrilled him to see her clinging to his words.

“And when it senses hesitance,” Voldemort had begun to circle about her, smirking at the way her neck craned to keep him in her line of sight, “When it senses conflict in us, our fear, do you know what it does?”

His steps had come to a clicking halt behind her, glowing gaze fixated on the refined curve of a throat, the gentle slope of a knobbed spine, the tension being held in a shapely jaw. Hands came down about those slight shoulders, not quite a bruising force but with just enough pressure to make their presence known. A firm and steadfast hold, the twitch she had given not going unnoticed. It was then, he realised, she was refusing to exhale. ‘What a guarded little thing,’ fingers offhandedly smoothed over the silk of her blouse, feeling her warmth seeping through the thin material. The iron sconces on the walls shuddered, deepening shadows cast about the furthest reaches of the room. A portion of the universe carved out for the two of them, hidden away deep in the earth from prying eyes and the inconveniences of the mortal world above.

“It turns on us, Harri,” he intoned softly, a morbid truth laid plain and bare.

Voldemort observed how she had stiffened, the bobbing movement of a heavy swallow, the unease colouring their bond. With an insistent force, he spun the girl around to fervently drink in the taut lines of her expression. Lowered brows were drawn, the blown-wide stare taking on a worried sheen, her chin stubbornly jutting out in an attempt to appear more confident than she truly was. After careful deliberation with Nagini, he had come to the conclusion as to why, exactly, she was so terrified of her own magic in the first place— she couldn’t see it. There was no face to put to the supposed ‘monster’, leaving her to battle with an unknown entity. It was a fear he understood. Refusing to allow his eyes to wander from hers, a hand, palm up and cupped to a cradle, was extended out in silent expectation. When the girl hadn’t moved, he cleared his throat to relay that he was being kept waiting, a minute tilt of his head to further prompt her. Satisfaction unfurled as she followed the command, inwardly marvelling at how perfectly it fit— a discovery that never failed to take him by surprise, no matter how often it had happened before. Hers was just so fragile, so delicate, the bones thin and begging to be crushed. The Dark Lord set about the task of rearranging the position of her hand to his liking— palm down and held at an even height from her sternum, each finger spread an equal distance from the next.

“As humans, it is an instinct of ours to shrink back from the mysterious forces of the universe and of ourselves,” he muttered, foot slipping between her legs and gently kicking the heels apart until they were aligned with her hips, “It isn’t until we can actually see our fears that our terror of them is lessened.”

When content that her hand was going to remain in place without assistance, his own brazenly slipped across her body— one resting over the heart, the other snaking around to settle in the dip of her lower back. He pressed down firmly, determined to straighten out the horrendous posture— a dreadful and ingrained habit of hers, he had discerned, to slouch whenever nervous. Voldemort permitted the indulgence of lingering, a momentary lapse in judgment as scarlet eyes bore past the silk blouse to where the flighty pulse was bursting into a fitful tempo. The corners of his mouth threatened to twitch into a smug smile— he would be lying if he claimed that knowing he had an effect on her wasn’t a heady power. Images of her bust, adorned with a contrasting emerald silk, floated to the forefront of his mind. How petal-soft her skin had been, the surprising warmth— ‘Now’s not the time or place,’ something in him sharply warned, tongue running over his canines in passing deliberation. It was right, of course. There was still so much to accomplish before the day was up and it wouldn’t help if either of them were distracted. Reluctantly, he took a half-step back.

“It would be best if you calmed down first,” he instructed knowingly, taking some pleasure in her shakily drawn breaths.

A few beats of silence ensued, a respite to collect herself, and he only continued when she had given a small nod in return, “Close your eyes. Focus on your magic, the pull of it. Feel its thrum, the way it courses in you, and reach out for it. When you have it, state ‘Ostendo’.” 

This time, the Dark Lord had taken several steps back, striving to remove as much of his aura from crowding her as possible. Green eyes slipped closed and he watched with unbridled eagerness. At first, there was nothing— no signs of progress, no indication she was even heeding the instructions. And part of him distantly wondered if the magic was too complex for her to manifest, if he was setting the girl to an impossible task— usually, most required both a wand and practice for satisfactory results. Yet, despite having the holly locked away in the study, he was hesitant to give her one. There was an immense hunger that demanded to know how powerful, exactly, his horcrux was. What was the extent of her capabilities? To what degree could she match him? Surely, if he could complete the spell wandless, she should be able to as well. However, as the minutes ticked on, doubt began to make itself known. A swelling itch of impatience, the spreading tendrils of acetic disappointment, teeth setting on edge— perhaps he had been too demanding after all.

But then came the slightest shifts in her expression. There was a rapid darting behind closed lids, a line etched between furrowed brows, fingers trembling in their strain. He clung to each and every tell with a ravenous thirst, digesting it all— she was having difficulties. And how _thrilled_ he was. It meant that the witch found something, had managed to stumble upon the force of magic, was feeling the connection.

“That’s it, Harri. Feel it in your heart, churning in time with the blood in your veins,” he coaxed, anticipation sparking hellfire eyes to life, “Feel how it pools in the bottom of your stomach. In your mind, that humming sound that never leaves you alone. Experience it, let it merge with you.”

In her mind, it was absolute anarchy, a surging frustration as she tried to comply with his instructions. But whenever Harri had thought she caught it, grasped the wisps, could reign it all in, the sensation would vanish. Slipping away, taunting and jeering for her to catch up in a vexing provocation. Admittedly, she was unaware of the spell’s nature or what it might produce— all she knew was that everything hinged on proving herself competent of doing it. And though that thought was, seemingly, without a logical basis, she seized it all the same. It was an instinctual desire in wanting him to be awed, impressed, to perhaps finally view her as the equal their prophecy foretold her to be. Toes curling in the leather boots, imaginary legs were willed to pump faster, to carry on after the fleeting phantom— the soft summons, the licking burn of _something_ not quite tangible yet entirely all too real. The advising words for concentration only faintly registered, a force abruptly slamming into her from behind, blindsiding her mind’s eye. An obscuring fog, a chill in her heart, the chambers choking on the murky deluge of it all. There were swirls of ice in clogged arteries, a rush that left knees weak and appendages disturbingly numb— she figured this is what he had alluded to about feeling it. Not just sensing but truly experiencing it as a visceral entity. Oddly enough, in place of fear, giddiness thrived.

“Ostendo,” despite having come out as a whisper, the word was strong, firm, resolutely clear— a tone that left no room for argument.

A sense of calm promptly followed, a weighted quiet, and Harri debated if she had perhaps done it wrong. Had she accidentally given the incantation a flawed inflection by stressing the wrong syllable? Or perhaps she hadn’t truly experienced what he described and acted too hastily in her keenness? But then the most peculiar sensation arose, a tug from the center of her breastbone, the dizzying rush of blood draining too quickly from frozen veins. It was as though everything was being sapped out of her, wrung through a too-thin tube, trembling fingers the conduit— yet it wasn’t exactly painful either. Frankly, it was simply all around disconcerting, unlike anything she could recall ever experiencing before. And so caught up was she in trying to fashion an appropriate analogy that the redhead hadn’t even heard Voldemort shift as he drew in closer. When his next words were whispered directly into her ear, the disarming feeling of breath fanning across her chilled cheeks, she tensed in surprise

“Open your eyes,” he commanded.

And so she did— a slow flutter, mouth falling open at the sight that greeted her. Harri could only look on dumbfoundedly at the humanoid creature standing before them, its hand raised in mimicry of her own. The thing was about her height, and possessed the same slight build, but there were no discernable features otherwise— the girl tilted her head in puzzlement, rearing back in shock when it had done the same with synchronous fluidity. ‘What the hell?’ Cautious green eyes drifted over to Voldemort, the awe in his burning gaze confirming all she needed to know. This creature was _her—_ or, at least, an extension of some kind. Attention turning back, she considered it with an apprehensive and morbid curiosity. The silhouetted lines of its body were the most detail it was endowed with, everything else shrouded by ink. And where skin should have been was pure blackness— a void. Pulsating, undulating, liquid darkness that was constantly churning. But, she was quick to realise her mistake upon a closer inspection, it wasn’t fully made of shadows. There were flecks of mica, silver shimmers that punctuated the lively backdrop, swirling almost playfully around one another. It brought to mind the idea of snow. The way the glistening flakes would drift lazily down to the earth on quiet nights, a continuous dance as the wind carried them onwards to their final resting place. Almost a romantic sort of image that summoned forth nostalgic memories. ‘It’s-’

“Beautiful,” Voldemort breathed in reverence, finishing aloud her half-formed thought— and all she could do was nod in agreement, wholly mesmerised.

Harri unsurely lifted her other hand to touch it, watching in thinly-veiled fascination when it had mirrored the movement. While she had expected a coldness to meet her, much to her surprise, it was the exact opposite— heat. A cozy and inviting type, the same as if she were cradling a mug of hot cocoa to her chest or had just sunk into a freshly-drawn bath after spending all day in the winter’s air. Comforting was the only coherent thing she could equate it to, a rush of emotion washing over her— and why did it inspire a sudden urge to cry? Happy tears, she came to understand, not the bitter or sorrowful ones that she was well-acquainted with.h.

“What is it?” she mumbled, trying to keep her wits about her, a leaden swallow to quell the mistiness threatening to overspill.

“Your magic,” he supplied, utterly captivated by the creature, “A shadow image, a physical representation of your core.” 

Voldemort had expected it to be unique, prepared himself for that eventuality— after all, it wouldn’t have suited the girl to project something dull or common. He even steeled himself to see an image identical to his— anticipated that as the most likely outcome. But in all scenarios, he never envisioned it to look like this. It was an unfairly beautiful thing. Stunning in a way his could never be— the poetic personification of a winter’s snowfall. And even though there was a darkness to it, as expected, it was still a far cry from his own. Hers wasn’t inhospitable, glacial, the kind that froze out all life or reaped devastation in its wake— against all odds, his horcrux had somehow managed to deviate from the origin of her creation and master, existing to be similar yet undisputedly unique. ‘A balance’, the thought materialised, scarlet eyes obsessively fixated on the circulating flecks of silver. They were an endearing sort of testament to her defiance, he figured, a rebellion against being confined by the binaries of dark or light. A girl who toed the line, retaining parts that were of her own without any care for conventionalities. And rising alongside the unbridled intrigue, flourishing hand in hand, was a possessiveness, an envy that made his fingers twitch with the need to reach for the shadow. Would those dancing stars, those pinpoints of white that bespeckled the abyss, eventually disintegrate? Be suffocated, choked out the longer time went on? Forced to darken under his influence? Or would they continue to endure, her eternal secret resistance against him? He wasn’t quite sure which possibility he wanted more. 

“It’s….mine?” she echoed in wonder, fingers folding together with the image’s.

“Indeed. It is quite breathtaking,” his stare bounced between her and the projection, a cajoling quality interwoven into his tone, “But do you finally understand? There is nothing to be afraid of nor is there anything evil about it. On a different note, you’ve accomplished a piece of rather intricate magic without a wand. Well done, Harri.”

And he was right— no one in their right mind could call the thing before them ‘evil’, could label it as being depraved in nature. Not when it exuded such surprising warmth or comfort. Snape’s prior assurances were echoed in Voldemort’s sentiment— the magic, itself, wasn’t the source of immorality or inherent rot. A speculative theory formed that this was exactly why he had her do this in the first place, to physically see the much-needed proof that such anxieties were unfounded. Harri’s attention raked over his defined profile, stomach clenching at the enraptured way he was still watching the shadow being. Something thrived, blooming at how pleased he seemed to be— it was a new-found weakness, she had mortifyingly discovered, that somehow his praise meant tenfold more than anyone else’s. Maybe it had to do with his own greatness, his unimaginable mastery of magic that caused his esteem to carry such weight. Or perhaps it was because there was no motive really behind it— he didn’t have to curry her favour to publicly endorse the press nor force her compliance into going back to the Dursley’s. It felt real, genuine, as though they weren’t some half-baked plaudits meant to lower her defenses. And lately, there was this ever-growing longing to hear more, a deep-rooted urge to never disappoint— a damnable thing, one that she tried her best to ignore, to stifle. But the fact he was calling the image, an extension of herself, ‘breathtaking’? Heat fanned across her cheeks, tearing her eyes away from him in a bid to move on.

“So,” Harri cleared her throat awkwardly, trying to disregard the turn her thoughts had taken, “What does yours look like?”

Voldemort blinked in mild alarm at the boldness of her question, taken back by its unanticipated forwardness. Logic tried to remind himself that the girl was unaware of the intimacy in showing one’s magic to another— after all, he had conveniently left out the connotation. In the barest meaning, it was the most honest, and brutal, reflection of one’s self. The very spirit, the soul, exposed for all to see, truths projected of one’s sinful secrets, affiliations, and corruptions. Considering the nature of the particulars revealed, most held it on the same level of sacredness as paired wands or unbreakable vows— the kind of thing that shouldn’t be freely given. And, in the past few centuries, it had morphed into a popular sort of wedding tradition amongst arranged marriages— a way for spouses to gain familiarity with the stranger they were now bonded to. Months were spent privately practicing the ‘Ostendo’, the resolve it took to manifest a fully-formed image normally requiring days of meditation beforehand. A smirk slid the corners of his mouth upwards at the thought— his little horcrux had just done so without a wand or all of the pomp and circumstance of rehearsal. ‘She truly is something else.’

“Harri-,” he opened his mouth to respond, to fully enlighten her on the social implications when a flicker appeared in the back of his mind.

Crimson eyes narrowed upon recognising the muddled call of Lucius, the smirk giving way to a frown at the urgency in his silent request for an audience. A wave of irritation rolled through him at the nerve of the man for interrupting them, for encroaching on their privacy despite the explicit orders not to. Long fingers curled and then uncurled, an indecisive action as though they weren’t quite sure whether to seek out punishment or stay his temper in an act of benevolence— he was in a good mood and hated to ruin it due to his disciple’s inability to follow simple instructions. ‘Too late for that.’ An exasperated low exhale, jaw clicking, teeth grinding against one another. He knew the latter would be preferable for all parties involved and, most likely, there was a justifiable enough reason for the insubordination. Plus, he had full faith that if he didn’t address the issue now, further damage control would have to be done later on— it was best to spare himself the future headache.

“I’m afraid,” he said, reaching for her hand and yanking it back from the shadow image— at the broken contact, it vaporised into thin air, “That will have to wait for another time.”

The Dark Lord had already foreseen the consequences of prematurely ending the spell, an arm darting out to wrap about her waist before she could fully collapse. A cord of muscle in his forearm flexed, tensing when nails sunk in to weather herself through the onslaught of magic returning to her core. By any account, it wasn’t a pleasant experience— he watched as emerald eyes screwed themselves shut, a soft groan of discomfort slipping past parted lips, shoulders sagging with an invisible weight. Roaming over her pinched expression, a mental note was made to see that she was given a pepper-up potion and some rest the very second they were able. It took several moments before the girl seemed settled enough, a sheepish slow nod and a mumbled out ‘thank you’— the continued paleness of her face, however, left him skeptical. When Harri made no move to stand on her own, hands still clutching at him for support, the notion of punishing the blond was revisited— a dark passing thought that whatever it was better be nothing short of an emergency. Voldemort drew her closer to him in an unspoken apology for what was about to be done, a harsh click of his tongue. Her disinclination towards apparating was something he was aware of, the inward cursing always broadcasted rather loudly in the aftermath of their landing. And, seeing how ill she looked, he considered she was going to hate it more than usual.

Wrapping the other arm across the thin expanse of her back, he caged the girl in against him, an unwitting burst of contentment at how she let herself be maneuvered. ‘This better be good indeed, Lucius.’ The dueling hall faded from existence.


	53. One Gesture of Trust for Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's been a while but I am so glad to be able to get this new chapter up for you guys 💕 Thank you to everyone who has been showing continual support + love for this fic even when the updates are slower than usual! I so appreciate it and feel so lucky to have such understanding people like you all for readers 💕
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy 💕
> 
> ** Also, happy Thanksgiving to any of my Canadian readers-- I hope you guys have a wonderful day!**

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* * *

"Are you alright?”

Harri only half-heard the question, the concern in his voice drowned out by the shrill ringing in her eardrums. Everything _hurt—_ yet it wasn’t the sharp type of pain that made itself immediately known. Rather, it was dull, creeping. The vicious sort that made itself known in every possible way, pervading in her body like a worm insistent on burrowing in the dampened earth after a rainfall. And it manifested in the most unusual of ways, bringing attention to parts of her that she wasn’t even aware could feel— a vibrating strain deep in her eye sockets, an ache felt down to her nailbeds, a scraping agony against burning lungs every time they inflated. Then, to make matters even worse, Voldemort had apparated them of all things, an ordeal that left her nauseous even when she and her body were on good terms. Frankly, getting mowed down by the Knight Bus seemed far less excruciating, and more preferable, than her current state.

She allowed herself a minute of respite, forehead resting against his chest. The coolness of his muscle helped to alleviate some of the throbbing currently assaulting her skull, a comfort found in his internal rhythm. A breath in, one out as the tattered remnants of her energy were collected, most of it having been siphoned off to an unknown entity. It wasn’t exactly an enigmatic riddle as to who was awaiting their arrivals, sequestered away behind the parlour’s grand doors— and she would be damned if the Dark Lord had to carry her in. The scrutinous judgments of the Death Eaters were already a headache to deal with and being caught in their Lord’s arms would, undoubtedly, only intensify their prying. ‘Bellatrix would have a fit. Then again— maybe it’s worth it,’ a derisive thought whose accompanying scoff couldn’t quite be stifled. Out of all of his followers, the woman was the most aggressive in her open glares, disdainful words, and predatory smiles. Most of the meetings were spent trying to ignore the bloodthirsty sheen in her too dark eyes or the murderous way those talon sharp nails drummed against the table. Admittedly, the notion of flaunting the one thing she coveted the most was appealing— though, that was a matter for another day when she felt more like ‘Harri’ and less like ‘roadkill’. 

“Mhm," the hum was all she could manage, too wary of actually speaking for the fear of retching— judging by her churning stomach and constricting throat, it was a possibility. 

Harri shrugged off the arm wrapped about her waist, taking a step out of his hold and surprised that he had let her— instant regret ensued when the world tilted without the continued support propping her up. But when hands reached for her again, she uneasily stumbled further out of reach in avoidance. The silent question held in crimson eyes hadn’t gone unnoticed as a respectable distance between their bodies was purchased. However, before either of them could see fit to comment on it, the doors swung open to reveal a harrowed Lucius.

“My Lord, I pray you can pardon the intrusion but I felt it prudent to alert you as soon as possible,” his words were breathless, as though he had been sprinting just moments prior, and there was an air of disorder to his usually put together person.

She considered him in passing, curiosity momentarily flaring to life and compelling her to forget the pain. The wizard had sunk down to one knee, head dipped in reverence as his blond strands hung limply past his shoulders. A quivering excitement clung to his frame, a nervous and flighty anticipation. ‘Odd.’ It was at this point that green eyes shifted to peer past his prostrating form and further into the room. The unnerving silence that had greeted them was entirely uncharacteristic of such assemblies, the moments before their Lord’s arrival usually passed in a gossiping clamour— and now she could see why. The long walnut table was completely empty. Those elaborately carved chairs that usually held the Death Eaters, the same ones that played witness to their cruel schemes and savage exchanges, were all vacated. In fact, the only ones in the parlour were Lucius and the Lestrange brothers. And while she should have been grateful that there wasn’t an audience to observe her shaking knees, it only engendered an uneasy confusion. After all, it was exceedingly rare for them not to flock to their leader whenever he appeared in their midsts, shamelessly salivating to gain his attention and tripping over themselves in foolish displays of loyalty. Her attention slid over to Voldemort’s profile, noting the minute tics of his displeasure— the twitch in the corners of his mouth, the muscle that jumped above his brow.

“Lucius,” Voldemort spoke softly, a deception to the finest degree of the true vexation he was experiencing, “I do hope you have a rather sound excuse for calling me here.”

The kneeling man cleared his throat, a portion of that earlier excitement visibly deflating, “I do, My Lord. However-.”

“Please, do enlighten me then. Because from where I am standing, it must not be so urgent seeing as my own generals have deigned it permissible not to attend,” the posh accent bled into a clipped drawl, oxford loafers clicking in the deafening quiet as he took several strides forward.

A tongue darted out to run skittishly over chapped lips, Malfoy’s voice warbling in the face of his Lord’s worsening mood, “M-My Lord, I a-assure you it is. My wife and Severus are both currently in the South Wing-.”

“Meanwhile, Bellatrix and Crouch are in the dungeons overseeing preparations,” Rodolphus had interrupted, his even tone a stark contrast to his companion’s.

Harri blinked in alarm, the cold wash of fear gripping her at their words. If she recalled correctly from Narcissa’s extensive tour, the South Wing of the manor was consigned as a pseudo-hospital wing ever since the vaulted halls had become host to the Dark Lord’s operations. In the past, it had been of minor use, never seeing too much action. Yet, now it would appear to be fulfilling its intended purpose— and how it filled her with dread, her heart skipping an erratic beat. ‘Why are they there? What happened?’ Gruesome scenarios looped, her imagination seeing fit to torment her with shocking images of their crumpled bodies— their blood vibrant spots against pressed linen sheets, their heads lolling lifelessly in surrender to gravity’s pull. ‘Calm down. If they were hurt, Lucius would have said so,’ a voice tried to reason, a valiant attempt to quell the anxieties that were threatening to overcome her. The vibration behind her eyes had sharpened, the headache worsening when unsteady feet took a step forward, the demands for elaboration already upon her tongue. It was a mistake— the obsidian floor was off-kilter, its call enticing her to make an acquaintance. Thankfully, Voldemort had seemingly guessed what was about to transpire, his hand darting out in a stabilising grip about her upper arm.

“I-If I may, My Lord,” Lucius nervously raised his head, staring pointedly at the witch, “It would be best if Miss Potter wasn’t present for this discussion.”

Scarlet eyes drank in her taut expression— the effects of her discomfort were leaking over into the bond, manifesting as an unpleasant buzzing in his own mind. If her tilting posture was enough to go by, she was in no way stable enough to sit through an hour-long briefing. And, admittedly, Lucius was presenting quite the emergency, one that was mystifying but nonetheless demanding his full attention— attention that, at the moment, was being solely occupied by his horcrux. Cautiously withdrawing from her, he hovered uncertainly should the need for his assistance arise again.

“Very well. Rabastan,” he commanded, torn in the decision of either wasting the time to take her back himself or to relinquish the responsibility to another, “Escort Harri to her rooms and see to it that Narcissa checks up on her.”

* * *

* * *

“What’s happening?” Harri demanded, narrowed eyes boring a hole into the back of the unsmiling man’s skull.

While originally she had wanted to protest at being sent away, keen to figure out what had recently occurred, she now found herself almost grateful for the fact. The veranda doors had all been opened in the corridors, the fresh spring air doing wonders to subdue the pounding in her head— enough so to the point that she felt like she could walk on her own two feet without the looming threat of collapsing. And it was in their stroll back to her chambers that Harri had noticed a queer little fact— Malfoy Manor was crawling with more Death Eaters than usual, a heightened amount of activity that left her tense. In the months she had been roaming the grounds, a spectre encroaching upon the spaces once solely reserved for family, she had come to the conclusion that there was one constant to the mansion— it was always quiet. Yet, something had taken place, an upset that cleaved the peace in two.

And there— her head snapped to the right just in time to see two more men in black robes, their masks shined to a bronze gleam, rushing past. They hadn’t even paused, only giving a hasty nod before slinking onwards in a hurried manner. Another sign that something was amiss— the Death Eaters always sunk into a bow whenever they spotted her. Though whether it was out of respect, or merely in compliance with their Lord’s unspoken wishes she never knew. 

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, little lion,” Rabastan mumbled without even sparing her a glance, his coal eyes fixed resolutely ahead.

Despite Harri still feeling the lingering aftereffects of the ostendo, she had enough energy to bristle at the dismissive tone and pet name that he, of all people, had no right to bequeath her. Her steps had halted, his soon following when it was clear that she wasn’t budging, irritation sparking at his unwillingness to divulge the truth. Why everyone remained so tight-lipped around her was vexing, bewildering— after all, it wasn’t like she was going anywhere anytime soon. And who was she even going to run off and tell about the inner-workings of Voldemort’s little cult? This was to be her indeterminable future, forever bound to the mansion and left with a limited circle for company— all of whom were already indoctrinated by the Dark Lord.

“Oh no,” she bit out resentfully, shoulders squaring determinedly, “No. I’m not in the mood to play this game.”

Thin arms crossed mulishly over her chest, curse green eyes narrowing a fraction when he spun around to face her, “I saved your life. By the rules of magic, you now owe me a life debt for interfering on your behalf when Voldemort was set on killing you. And I’m collecting it— right here, right now. What. Is. Happening.”

There was a flicker of mild surprise in those coal depths, the slightest raising of his brows at her strategic angle. While Rabastan, truthfully, hadn’t spent much time around the girl, he had gleaned enough from those who had to know she was brash, daring, a Gryffindor at her core— there was a reason, after all, that she had been pegged as the light’s champion. Yet the way she was looking at him now, the cool assessment, the guarded shrewdness in her gaze, and the unwavering execution of the principles regarding life debts. Well, he was sure her fellow housemates wouldn’t ever dream of purposefully backing someone into a corner and putting their magic on the line should they fail to comply. ‘Interesting.’ He raked his attention over her, a small half-smile at the new appraisal that, perhaps, there was more to her than met the eye.

“Well, it looks like someone has been studying,” he mused, retracing his steps to pause an arm’s length away from her, fingers casually interlacing behind his back.

“Narcissa is a good teacher,” she sniped in response, evenly meeting his stare and refusing to shy away from the glint of twisted amusement she had found in it.

“A little snake disguised as a lion— there’s something you don’t see every day. You may just find your place among us yet, Miss Potter,” the smile broadened at the briefest flicker of disgust marring her face, mentally filing away the nerve he had struck for later use, “But let it be known, I accept the terms of repayment.”

There was a golden shimmer settling across their skins, a flash of light, and a prickling tingle that left goosebumps in its wake, “We found the Order. Yaxley had been tipped off about a secret meeting and a few were snatched in the process. They are currently down in the dungeons, a girl among them that was quite temperamental and screaming out for _you_ in particular. Though, I don’t believe any of them will last long— especially not with Bellatrix having her fun.”

* * *

* * *

She was treading holes into the Persian rug, it was an absolute fact, but sparing the finery from her nerves was the last concern entertained at the present. Though common sense was screaming for her to sit down before she fainted, Harri refused to heed it— after all, why should she have the luxury of sitting in front of a roaring fire, resting her leaden legs upon a plush ottoman, when one of her friends was rotting away down in the dungeons? Or even worse— being tortured. One would have to be a daft idiot not to piece together what Rabastan was alluding to when he had mentioned Bellatrix’s “fun”, the instability of the deranged woman’s mind a cause for concern. Combined with the fact that she was unaware of who, exactly, was now a hostage— the uncertainty was a corroding force against her composure. A thumb was swiping pressured strokes across its twin’s palm, a tic done to abate some of the unease, sharp teeth sinking into the plush inside of her cheek and worrying it. ‘Who is it? Hermione, maybe? Ginny? Luna? Lavender?’ There were too many on the list that would fit the criteria of a “girl”, and it was likely any one of them could have been at that meeting— at this point, she had been gone for so long that she couldn’t even hazard a guess as to who had formally joined the Order’s ranks.

There was a strike from the grandfather clock, a chime signaling the end of the— well, honestly she didn’t even know what time it was. Rabastan had left her in the study with the departing message that Narcissa would be by soon, a subtle warning not to do anything stupid in the meantime— and it was hard to miss the sound of the lock being turned. A frown appeared, the determined feet stilling in their march as she silently counted each toll with dread. ‘11 am then,’ an idle thought, blunt nails raking across her scalp in frustration. It was a conundrum at its core. Normally, she would have been able to unlock the door with ease. But considering her current state, trying to utilise magic just might make it worse. And even if she did leave the study, what could she honestly do? The manor was overflowing with Death Eaters so breaking her friend out unnoticed wasn’t going to be the most realistic option. ‘It’s not like he would let them go if I asked.’ 

But say if they were freed from their cell, what would be the next step? The wards around the mansion prevented her from physically leaving and, most likely, from apparating as well— and outrunning his followers across acres of property wasn’t feasible. Plus, it was likely that their wand had been confiscated at some point, leaving them not to be of much help. The floo parlour was also out of the question as the enchantments had been doubled down ever since her lessons had begun. All prospects were dismal, the miracle she sorely needed still elusive despite the endless silent pleas. It was hopeless, futile, a doomed endeavour that rendered her completely useless, utterly pathetic—.

“Shit!” she screamed, the weighted pit of dread morphing into a burst of adrift anger, hands curling about the crystal tumbler on the mantle and throwing it blindly against the wall— the shatter of it coming apart into a million pieces indescribably satisfying.

“Still destroying things that aren’t yours, Potter?” a monotone voice, the stress placed on the consonants unmistakable.

Harri whirled around, mildly regretting it when a fresh wave of pain made itself known, to find Severus lingering in the doorway. Despite the snide remark, she could see the truth of the man— he was exhausted. The lines etched into the corners of his mouth seemed more prominent than before, the pale complexion bordering on sallow, a weariness clinging to him like a second skin. It had given her a moment of startled pause, the sense of despair temporarily lost in its wake. In all of the years she had known the dour professor, he never was one to outwardly show signs of the troubles plaguing his mind— and it unnerved her to see it now. 

“Prof- Snape,” she amended quickly at the pointed look sent her way, stepping sheepishly forward to block the shattered glass from his line of sight, “What, uhm, what are you doing here? I thought Narcissa was supposed to come.”

“Yes, well,” a weary sigh escaped him, his tone taking on a bitter quality, “Thanks to that fool Yaxley, our hands are full at the present. Narcissa has always been the better healer and I am certain our wounded are grateful that I left them to her tender mercies instead of mine.”

He had given a slight tilt of his head towards the armchairs and Harri moved to sink into the unoccupied one. There was a second of quiet where coal eyes did nothing but slide shut, the soft exhale of laboured breathing filling the space while thin fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose. She waited, deciding to grant the man the small mercy of reprieve despite the thousand questions trying to claw their way up her throat— a thick swallow to repress them as her leg bounced aimlessly against the ground.

“I was informed,” Snape finally murmured, hands falling from his face and folding in his lap instead, “That you needed healing and something about magical exhaustion? Whatever reckless thing did you do now?”

“Blame Voldemort,’ she watched as he retrieved two vials from the inner-pockets of his black robes and uncorked the one containing an amber liquid, “He’s the one at fault here.”

Severus regarded the girl as she knocked it back, finding it within himself to be slightly amused by her ensuing grimace at the taste of the replenishing drought. An empty bottle was exchanged for a pepper-up, brow lifting at the rebellious usage of his Lord’s name— a defiant habit she never seemed to fully break, “And how so?”

“He made me do an, uhm, oh bloody— ‘Ostendo’. Right, that’s what it was,” she frowned at the choked noise he had given in response, eyeing with suspicion the incredulous stare directed towards her, “Wandless, mind you. And then he had the bloody brilliant idea to end it without warning.”

“And you were able? To produce something, I mean,” he questioned, more than taken back by her offhanded manner— apparently, the girl was unaware of the spell’s meaning and, frankly, the last thing he felt like doing was enlightening her. No, that thankless task could be delegated to Narcissa if he had any say in it. 

Her confusion only grew at the disbelief in the potion master’s tone, the thinly-veiled fascination glowing in those dark eyes of his. Downing the scarlet liquid and relishing in the immediate warmth that spread throughout her limbs, easing away the pain from her sockets, the persistent ache in her marrow, Harri found herself unable to hold her tongue any longer. The renewed strength seemed to edge her forward, emboldening her now that she felt somewhat more fortified.

“Yeah, of course. But Snape,” she leaned forward in the chair, gaze nervously flitting to the study’s door before returning back to him, “What’s going on? I know he has the Order but I want to know who, exactly, is in the dungeons.”

Lips pressed into a thin line, mind whirling with calculations as he took in the redheaded witch before him. He should have known that it wouldn’t stay a secret for long— after all, Harri Potter certainly had a knack for uncovering things that, by all accounts, should have remained hidden from her. It was an uncanny ability that could be frustrating to deal with, the source of his many past frustrations. And Severus had no doubt that if he inquired as to where she had learned the tidbit from, the girl would either try to think of a poorly construed lie or change the subject. Nevermind if he chose not to oblige her and cede to the request. Undoubtedly, such was her personality that she would march down to the dungeons in search of an answer, ultimately earning both of them the ire of one Dark Lord. Plus, as she had demonstrated more times than he could count, it wouldn’t be out of her character to do something as reckless, as brash as attempting a doomed rescue mission. It was a difficult situation, the consequences of either outcome something he only had seconds to weigh. ‘Nothing can ever be easy when it involves her.’ An exhale through his nose, the sullen man had decided to give in to the lesser of the two evils, the one that would incite less damage in the long run. 

“He has the youngest Weasley child,” he said carefully, slowly, the crumpling countenance of her face twisting about his conscience.

Severus rose from the seat, sparing a concerned look down to her muted form. Her attention was seemingly fixated upon the errant shards of glass, its glinting pieces scattered along the baseboard— unfiltered horror dawned in those emerald eyes when his words finally processed. A string of platitudes ran through his mind, reassuring words that everything will be fine flashing to the forefront— but they all sounded hollow. Too empty. Meaningless and forced as even he, himself, couldn’t say for certain what the outcome of this was to be. And though some might find comfort in such condolences, he had too much respect for the girl’s intelligence to believe her that ignorant. Instead, a hand, its fingers elongated and palms thin, settled on her shoulder, a fleeting squeeze— the unspoken request clear for her to weigh the repercussions before acting. He left her there in silence with the crackling of the fire and the chaos of her thoughts for companionship.

* * *

* * *

Harri had found herself moving from the study to Voldemort’s bedroom, the reason for such one that not even she could fully explain. Logic tried to justify that it only made sense to wait for him there, that it was plausible it would be the first place he would return to. But that wasn’t exactly the sole reason either. Some part of her sought out comfort, solace, a place to calm the rising tide of her dismay. And so when the image of his bed, of the black silk and the warm scent of something she couldn’t quite place, came to her mind, her feet readily acted upon that desire. ‘Ginny. They have Ginny.’ It was a damning thought, an endless loop circling. Try as she may to begin to build a case, to predict how the conversation would go if she demanded that he release the poor girl, it was all futile— the only thing she could focus on was that of a freckled face and chocolate brown eyes, dirtied and dulled by fear. Ginny, _her_ Ginny, was rotting down in the dungeons, nestled amongst the filth and damp stone. She had made a promise, a solemn vow back in her 2nd year that nothing would ever befall the poor girl again, that she wouldn’t be left to rot in a watery grave. Yet, it was being broken at this very moment. Her stomach lurched uneasily at the thought, knowing all too well what the youngest Weasley’s truest nightmare was, the form her boggart had taken— and he was about to make an appearance, the Devil lingering on her front step.

The door creaked open, the curtains drawn and not a soul in sight— she found it preferable that way. Despite the pain having subsided from her limbs, there was still the insistent press in her mind, an acute heaviness that continued to leech off from her. Footsteps treading soundlessly over the hardwood, Harri failed to suppress the shiver from the chill of the room. Green eyes drifted over to the deadened mantle, the collected layer of ash a testament to how long it had been since the fire was relit. She could light it. In fact, it would have been easy enough to do so, a simple push of her magic outwards and a will for warmth— yet she didn’t. The downy mattress had given under her weight, a soft whoosh in the oppressive quiet as it moved to cradle her. Harri sat there listlessly, legs dangling over the side and hands running absentmindedly across the silken duvet. ‘He really doesn’t like colour, does he?’ It was a distracting thought, one made in the absence of any others as she studied the monochromatic tones— a canvas only painted in hues of black, of white, of grey. Not a drop of brightness to be found. In her experience, a space as private as a bedroom revealed a great deal about its owner. Take Ron, for example. Ron with his warm oranges and reds, the disorganization of quidditch magazines, and strewn about pillows on the floor— it was homely, comforting, a place free of judgments and negativity. Or Hermione’s earthly palette of greens and browns, with her alphabetically arranged bookcases and lavender-scented candles always burning— sensible, calm, inviting. But Voldemort’s? It was clinical. Spartan, perfectly structured, an attestation to the strict order he thrived in. A man without a need for colours or embellishments or personalization— all aspects humans usually required to feel secure. The demonstration that he had moved on past such things, that the issues of humanity, of compassion, no longer plagued him. Truly, the only thing that made her feel like this was his space, and not just another empty guest room in the manor, was the bed. _His_ bed with _his_ sheets and _his_ scent that persistently lingered.

A lump formed in her throat, a pocket of air difficult to swallow around as her head fell into open palms. She wasn’t so much of a fool to believe that this day wouldn’t have ever come— he had made a vow, after all, to find the Order one way or another. And having spent 16 long years engaged in his dance, she knew he always upheld such promises eventually. Plus, ‘mercy’ wasn’t a concept he was inclined towards, the word seemingly erased from the vast repertoire of his vocabulary. Yet, some small part had always hoped this would be an issue to deal with far, far in the future. That, when the day would finally arrive, she would have fostered an amicable enough relationship with him to exert influence into persuading him to stay his hand. Or, perhaps, have the power and wisdom to free them— that she would have years, with any luck, to put into place a contingency plan. But now? Now was too soon. That idealised situation was nowhere in sight, the ‘Harri’ required to pull it off still concealed behind the murk of the future. And though she begged her mind to work, to jumpstart it into formulating a strategy, it refused to cooperate. Instead, all attention was consumed by every wrongdoing, every harsh word or insult spoken out against him. All the times she had run her mouth in reckless anger, the hateful vows to never side with him, the claims she would remain foremost loyal to her family and friends— and if her abysmal memory could vividly recall it, his most certainly could as well. Tears stung her vision, blurring, distorting. Every inch of her feared that Ginny would be the one reaping the consequences for such defiance, that it would be her friend suffering in her stead— it was as though a branding iron had been shoved down into her lungs at the revelation, a hiccup of a sob bubbling up. Was the girl even still alive? Or had she been tortured until the final drop of information had been wrung out of her like the moisture from a washcloth— crumpled from the abuse of unkind hands and left to die?

“Please,” she choked out, “please, please, please.”

It had become a mantra to an unknown god, strangled sounds slipping out in the spaces between gasps and tears. The word was repeated until it blurred, its meaning lost, the inflections incoherent until it had been rendered into a jumbled mess. An act of desperation, one made in the throes of hopelessness when all else failed. And Harri wasn’t even quite sure what, exactly, she was wishing for, the precise details of such muddled pleas entirely eluding her— she just knew she felt it in her bones. A need made with such unbridled devotion that she figured whatever god may be listening in could easily sort it out for themselves its meaning. 

* * *

* * *

Harri had awoken to the sound of running water and an indescribable softness against her bare cheek, to the consuming scent of sweet smoke and warmed spices. Emerald eyes fluttered open, blurrily blinking back the threads of sleep as she tried to reorient herself to reality. The curtains about the four-poster bed had been drawn, a welcoming dimness that only served to add to the momentary confusion. And as she hauled herself up into a sitting position, hand rubbing tenderly at the rawness of her throat, the girl finally placed where she was. ‘His room.’ It would appear that she had fallen asleep, despite the original plan to await Voldemort’s return— and that someone had seen fit to let her continue her dreamless state. While once upon a time it may have been alarming to find herself tucked in under the covers, nestled in the bed of the Dark Lord and laying her head upon his pillows, the circumstances had changed. In fact, such occurrences had become so commonplace that it was stranger to find herself anywhere else. And, admittedly, she always slept more soundly here than she did in her own chambers, somehow finding the presence of him and Nagini more and more comforting. Stretching to chase away the cracks in her spine, it was a relief to find that her earlier panic had leveled out a touch. True, she was still undoubtedly worried, the fearful dread an insistent coil wound tight in her stomach— but at least her mind was clearer, the hyperventilating sobs bottomed out. And in their place was a newly-found determination, a fierceness to protect what was hers, to shake him until he saw the absurdity in holding a 15-year-old hostage. 

A deep breath to calm herself, a meditative trance, and a solemn promise to be rational when facing him, Harri untangled her legs from the sheets. ‘Don’t provoke him,’ logic reminded as wary feet guided her to the steady stream of a running tap, ‘Don’t give him any reason not to listen.’ With another long inhale, an even longer exhale, she pushed the door inwards.

“I know about-,” the words died on her tongue, half-realised and never even getting the chance to be voiced.

Such vows of a calm and collected demeanor were tossed out the window upon seeing the gore that had been presented to her, the white marble painted vividly by startling shades of scarlet. The countertops were marred by splatters, greedy blooms that twisted and spread across the pristine surface. Droplets punctuated the floor in a random manner, no rhyme or reason to their placement, yet, somehow, all leading back to the original source— him. Standing at the sink, normally crisp shirt stained and cuffs rolled up past his elbows, was Voldemort. He was the origin of the horror, of such upset to the normally ordered world of the bathroom— the corded muscles of his forearms were coated in blood, a film that clung to the crevices, the dips between his fingers, under his nailbeds. It stained his pale complexion, finding purchase in the way of a fine mist across the collared button-up. And even as he was attempting to wash it off under the running water, the stream tingeing a rusted shade of pink, it would appear that it would never come off— that he would never be rid of the physical proof of his violent sin.

A hand clamped over her mouth in shock, a valiant attempt to stop herself from gagging as the smell finally hit. The air was metallic, cloyingly sweet with a tang that, for the strangest of reasons, made her teeth ache along their gums. It was disgusting, revolting, a sight that caused acidic bile to rise. And it was made even worse by the fact that there was only one reasonable source as to whose blood that might be. Green eyes obsessively fixated on the tinted water, unable to stop herself from morbidly trying to guess which specific person’s essence was being washed down the drain— was it Ginny’s? Or, perhaps, it had come from multiple people she had once known? A hodgepodge and diluted mixture of magical blood being callously disposed of.

“W-who- I. You,” Harri fumbled for the right words, her heart nearly stopping when he had turned to glance over his shoulder— there was a smear of it across his pronounced cheekbone, the hue almost dull in comparison to the glowing hellfire of his eyes.

“Harri,” he greeted cautiously, gaze narrowing a fraction at the grief-stricken expression she was sporting.

He turned back to his task of washing himself clean, mind whirling, and cursing the universe for choosing the most inopportune moment for her to wake up. When he had first arrived to see her curled up in his bed, it had been almost a miracle— after all, it had been his every intention to spare her from the gruesome details, to make himself presentable and conceal the truth of what was being done down in the dungeons. But as it would appear, yet again, Harri Potter was intent on defying his plan at every turn. And so here she was now, looking at him aghast and horrified, stunned into silence as he tried to piece together a convincing enough lie or excuse.

“You-,” she whispered, taking a faltering step back before finally finding her voice, “You promised!”

Voldemort grit his teeth, furiously scrubbing at his skin yet finding no contentment when the blood lifted away. Judging by the sharp accusation in her tone, it was clear that she was already aware of the fact that a few of the Order’s members were imprisoned underneath the manor— though precisely how escaped him, a note being made to discover whose tongue was loose. ‘And perhaps remove it for them.’ He reached for the towel hanging on the rack, passing it over his damp skin and paying no mind to the mess he had created, thoughts consumed by strategy on how to proceed next. Glancing up in the mirror, he ran the rag across his cheek, scarlet eyes shifting from himself to the reflection of the girl in the doorway. It was a thin line to toe, he knew it— after all, her face plainly spoke of her opinions. But then again, what did she expect? Even if he had asked nicely, they wouldn’t have freely given up information— not that they knew a considerable amount seeing as most of them were newer recruits. And he didn’t have the time to wait around until they were desperate, starved, or dehydrated enough to barter out names and locations for relief. Fingers curled into the plushness of the soiled washcloth, tossing it aside on the stained counter, a tongue running over his canines in idle deliberation.

“And what, _exactly_ , did I promise?” his response was just as soft, intent on watching her in shrewd appraisal from the mirror.

Harri blinked, brows knitting together in incredulous surprise that he had apparently forgotten, “Wha- that you wouldn’t personally touch them!”

He couldn’t quite help the scoff at her protests nor stop the swell of embittered jealousy at the fact she was still so readily coming to their aid. Part of him had dared to hope that the endless months of separation would have been enough to sever any lingering connections. That he, himself, had managed to occupy the spaces in her thoughts, in her heart that they once did— a foolish hope but one he entertained nonetheless. Pushing himself off from the counter, long strides carried him past her, devoting singular attention to undoing the shirt’s buttons rather than looking at the redhead in his periphery. Of course, he hadn’t forgotten the pledge that those she held close would be spared from his own personal administrations— had even made sure that those he interrogated were strangers to her, unknowns, variables that wouldn’t further complicate matters. And sure, he had threatened her in the past with their deaths but that was mainly for an added gravity to his warnings. It would cause irreparable damage to their relationship, a prodigious fallout, dire repercussions on a paramount scale that he didn’t feel like having to spend decades dealing with in turn. Yet her insistence on protecting them still gnawed, twisted, envy giving birth to a vile beast that had been mostly dormant in these past few weeks.

“You promised me that you wouldn’t harm a hair on their heads!” she called after him, trailing hot on his heels, an acetic mixture of disbelief and fury driving her forwards.

‘Don’t react. Just calmly explain yourself and it’ll be fine,’ a little voice whispered, fingers reaching the end of the buttons’ row as he tried to ignore her form lingering in the closet’s threshold. A phantom refusing to abate in its insistence on haunting him, of demanding acknowledgment. There was sound logic in the idea of confessing, he couldn’t deny it— so why was his tongue refusing to work? Shuffling through the racks of collared shirts, a muscle in his jaw ticked when the answer had come to him without warning. Because verbally stating that Ginny Weasley had been spared would be the same as admitting to his compromise. That he had allowed his hand, his actions to be determined by the whims of a teenager and the thought of her eternally hating him— that any progress they had made would be completely nulled. He had denied his baser instincts, had allowed them to be curbed and dictated by a promise made in passing. And what kind of Dark Lord was he that he allowed himself to be brought to heel by such a slip of a girl? A girl that, by all rights, was _his_. His horcrux, his magic, an extension of his soul— it wasn’t the other way around. So why did she hold so much power? He was Lord Voldemort. He wasn’t meant to settle, to deny himself or listen to the whims of others. It was damning, maddening, a recent development that left him furious with himself and off-centered.

Harri watched as he shrugged the bloodied shirt off, barely paying attention to his naked form as a wave of desperation rose. His lack of a response was killing her, instinctively interpreting it as a sign of his omitted guilt— he had done something to Ginny, she was more certain of it now than ever. And how it terrified her, made her anger spark to life— a constant companion more readily welcomed than sorrow or despair. Fury was something she could work with, act upon, utilise as armour and fuel.

“Whatever happened to ‘I don’t tell lies’?!” her voice had pitched a few octaves in volume, a pit settling in her stomach.

“I thought I could at least count on you to be honest with me, no matter how vile the truth is,” the flex of muscle in his shoulders, the rigidness in the lines of his body went unnoticed as she pressed onwards, unnerved by his continuing silence, “You, of all people, I thought I could rely on for that!”

She blinked in affronted surprise when he had pushed past her instead of answering, a new shirt clutched in his hands and crimson eyes set firmly ahead. It was obvious he was trying to flee, to disregard her outburst— but yielding wasn’t exactly known to be her strongest suit. Unashamedly pursuing the Dark Lord back into the bedroom, a small hand darted out to grip his elbow, an adamant hold to prevent him from leaving.

“Fucking say something already!” the demand was sharp, accentuated by a weak pull in a bid to make him face her.

“I’ve kept my promise, Harri!” it had taken them both as a surprise when his response came out as a yell, a clipped outburst as he unceremoniously yanked his arm out of her grasp.

Voldemort regarded her owlish stare, the rosebud mouth parting in shock, an unwittingly formed sneer on his face as he tossed the crumpled stained shirt to the ground, “I kept that _damnable_ oath of yours despite Ginevra Weasley being the most valuable asset I have at the moment. I haven’t touched a _single hair_ on her godforsaken head despite how bloody well I want to. In fact, I even made sure that no one else down there could be someone you might lay claim to _‘loving’_.”

She studied him as he shrugged on the clean button-up, unable to contain her shock at the fact he had yelled of all things. In the months she had been around the man, no matter how much she inspired his anger, pushed or prodded at his patience, he had never raised his voice. Not once. Yet, he just had— it was disconcerting, rendering her mute with uncertainty. And, for the strangest of reasons, it made her feel almost guilty with the revelation that she had pushed the Dark Lord to such an extreme. A heavy swallow, the weight shifted from one foot to the other as her hand fell limply back to her side. ‘That wasn’t her blood.’ It was a solace, a worry lessened only to be immediately replaced with a crushing guilt— sure, Ginny hadn’t been the one to suffer but someone else had. Some stranger, some unknown person had been bled out and here she was feeling _relieved_ of all things. There was nagging self-deprecation calling her selfish, callous, cruel, unrelenting little whispers that she tried to drown out by opening her mouth— only to close it again when no words came to mind. Frankly, Harri was unsure how to react— what to say or to do that would avoid tripping the anger that was only being kept simmering just below the surface. And it threw her for a loop hearing him admit that he had kept his promise in the end, had even gone to the extent of ensuring those imprisoned weren’t people she knew. ‘But it doesn’t justify torture,’ a reminder, feeling torn in several directions as moral obligations constricted about her heart. _‘One thing at a time,’_ a different whisper to rival the other, the voice she decided to cling to for fortification. Teeth sunk into her lower lip, biting it while she tried to puzzle out how to navigate the unforeseen landmines of his irritation.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, the words barely classifying as a whisper— yet he had apparently heard them all the same, stilling in his task of redressing, “I should haven’t accused you.”

Hesitantly, her hands reached forward to replace his, pausing for a moment to gauge his reaction. When it wasn’t explosive or volatile, she began to match the ivory buttons to their correct slots, working quickly but with purpose. Harri was aware of the unmistakable weight of his calculating gaze, the silent question dancing in those scarlet eyes— but this was her chance, she figured, to set things right. Perhaps, though it could be foolish to hope, the future wasn’t that far off. Maybe, just maybe, she could attain it now, could have the chance to foster the relationship she had envisioned— could become the force to exert a subtle influence on him for the good of others. And there was one last bargaining chip she needed to play, a final hand to bank on in order to help secure such an ideal.

“You want my cooperation, right? For me to willingly stay here forever?” she asked innocently, knowing that the proverbial carrot was being dangled in front of him by the way he had gone rigid— almost as if perking up in interest as to where this conversation was heading.

“Then keep my friends out of this— they’re just teenagers, kids being swept along. Trust me, I know how it feels to be roped in by adults. Show me that they’ll be safe, that I can trust that you won’t use them against me. Show me by starting with releasing Ginny Weasley,” the words came out firmly, hands lingering on the broad expanse of his chest and fingers flexing at the solidness under them.

“Trust has to go both ways, Harri,” he mused, watching her auburn crown with a keenness, an eager hunger— he had already guessed that she was setting up a boon system, an interesting strategy he had to admit, and one that made him curious to see what she would offer up in kind. 

She tried to hide her nerves, to not so plainly show the giddy trepidation she was experiencing at how beautifully he was playing along. It was a sacrifice she was making, a power that was about to be handed over to him— but it was crucial, absolutely vital if she wanted to achieve her end goal. Not quite trusting the expression on her face, she settled for burying it in his chest for a moment, a chance to collect her composure under the guise of something sweeter. Closed lips pressed softly, gently over his heart, a fleeting second, before pulling away.

“I know. And that’s why I’m letting you name your price. Tell me what I can do to earn yours,” green eyes lifted to stare into his evenly— it was a weighty thing to voice, a verbal agreement of signing her name on the dotted line.

It was the least she could do considering everything that the Weasleys had done for her in the past years— she owed them everything. Their kindness and generosity helped her get through the unbearable summers at the Dursley’s, while the friendship of their children had weathered her through tumultuous times over and over again. Molly was the maternal figure she had never known, had welcomed her with arms thrown wide from the very first year. She could still remember receiving her first-ever Christmas present, a scratchy maroon sweater that held love in every stitch— a woman sitting up all night to knit a jumper for a child she barely even knew just so she would have something to unwrap come morning. And the thought of making someone like that go through the pain of losing a child, an agony so easily prevented— she refused to let it happen. If it meant sealing her own fate in the process, giving up a portion of herself in favour of saving another, so be it.

Voldemort considered the offer, gaze searching her own for any sign of hesitation, of regret. Yet there appeared to be none, her will resolute and steadfast. And he debated if he should give her an impossible task, one to truly test the boundaries of her proffered loyalty and the extent to which she was willing to go. Admittedly, it was an exhilarating concept that she was even offering up her devotion, one of the many aspects that he coveted about her—the unshakeable sort of commitment, of fidelity and faithfulness that would bind them together. A smirk slid the corners of his mouth upwards, mind turning over at the possibilities. Of its own admission, a hand reached out to lightly grip her chin, tilting that heart-shaped face upwards to better drink it in.

“Alright. One gesture of trust for another,” there was a lilt to his voice, a betrayal of his anticipation, “Bring me information of the Order straight from Ginevra’s lips. Do it well and I will let her go— unharmed and intact.”

He almost expected her to protest, to deny it, to plead to do anything else other than betray the Weasley child— had foreseen that as the most likely outcome, in fact, and prepared a backup request just in case. Though when the gears began to turn in those wide green eyes, the telltale signs of acknowledgment and the beginnings of a scheme, it would have been a lie to say he wasn’t pleasantly thrilled. And when she had given the final acquiescing nod of her head, that thrill grew into an unbridled elation. 

* * *

* * *

It hadn’t been an easy decision by any means. Truthfully, it was one she had originally balked at, was ready to claim that the price was too steep. But the more she considered it, the more fortuitous it was that was all Voldemort had asked in return— because he presented her with the opportunity to at least protect Ginny, her friends, and the Order in her own way. She could spare the youngest Weasley the terror of experiencing her waking nightmare all while gaining information of the outside world— and right under the Dark Lord’s nose. Of course, there were risks involved in trying to filter out what kind of tidbits she could feed him, how much leeway she truly had, but he had been vague enough to spin it to her advantage. He only said ‘information’ and that was certainly something she could work with. Plus, with any luck, she could make it so Ginny was released before the month was even up— all she had to do was convince him that the teenager barely knew anything of importance. 

The girl was taking the stairs to the dungeons slowly, feet disinclined to hurry along until she was more sure of herself and the plan. Clutched between thin fingers was a canteen of water, innocent enough on a first glance, the sloshing against its metal walls relaying nothing devious about its inherent nature— yet it was a lie. He had insisted on interlacing it with veritaserum, had made her do so, in fact, right before him to affirm her commitment to their little barter. The Dark Lord explained that the serum was to be an added precaution, a safety net— though for whom, however, had escaped her notice until now. It was for _her_ should she be unable to gain her friend’s compliance without added assistance. Though the Ginny she knew would never outright lie to her face, or so she hoped, the fact of the matter was that it had been some time since they had last seen one another. And, as it often does, time changes people. More specifically, it had changed herself— had warped and twisted, frayed and sculpted her to its liking. It wasn’t even a fear entertained up until this very moment but, as she paused on the last step, green eyes adjusting unnaturally quick to the dimness of the dungeons, it was making itself well-acquainted with the intimacies of her mind. ‘What if I’m too different? What if Ginny doesn’t even recognise me anymore? What if she’ll hate me for it? What if she can tell that I am-’

Nails curled inwards to impress half-moons onto her free palm, a mild sting to serve as a grounding mechanism. ‘Stop it,’ another voice chided in an attempt to quell the swirls of her anxieties, trying to find justification that, outwardly, she still _looked_ the same. And if she was physically unaltered, that’s all the mattered— she could fake anything else if need be. Though, honestly, how dissimilar was the current Harri from the one that had spent her days at Hogwarts? After all, it wasn’t like she had become an entirely new person, hadn’t been completely erased, and imbued with a different soul. ‘You know that’s not true. You’ve changed, don’t deny it.’ With no small amount of trepidation, dragonhide clad feet stepped off the final rise of the stairwell, surrendering herself over to the damp air and the narrow stone-encased walls. 

For the ease of convenience, Ginny had been moved to the top tier of the dungeons and Harri was immensely grateful for it. Judging from the faintest echo of screams drifting up the metal steps at the end of the hall, the lingering traces of iron heavy in the air, it was an utter nightmare down below. Another circle of Hell far worse than the last, one she was intent on avoiding if at all possible. Gaze fixed resolutely ahead, refusing to peer into the cells flanking either side for the fear of accidentally seeing someone else she might know, a frown twitched on her mouth upon seeing who was strolling the length of the corridor. Even with his back turned, it was impossible to mistake the towering frame and inhumanly broad shoulders— ‘Greyback.’ 

Falling in line behind him were two others, werewolves no doubt, and though they towered over herself, their statures looked pitiful in comparison to the man in the middle. He was wearing the same tattered leather coat, heavy mud-caked boots deafening in their footfalls, and an overconfident swagger to his stride. A slew of inward curses formed when she saw his trio was blocking the passageway, damning the fact that it was him, of all people, she had run into down here. And then, as if reading her thoughts, a grating bark of a laugh ricocheted off the flagstone.

“I thought I smelled something. Hard to mistake roses among the scent of shit,” he slowly turned around, a passing leer as watery eyes regarded her from the shadows, “‘Ello, pup. Been a while.”

Harri stiffened as the weight of his attention settled over her, instinctually bristling against it. Truthfully, she despised the man, and being in his presence always set her on edge, made her insides squirm in the most uncomfortable sort of way. He was a predator in all rights of the word, a beast that thrived on blood and chaos. And yes, Voldemort was assuredly one too, a creature honed for hunting and for death— but at least he was _smart_ about it. Restrained, calculating, almost civilised at times. The type to offer you tea and refreshments while deciding whether or not to sink his fangs into your throat— Greyback, however, forewent all of the niceties and debates. He was an animal ruled by desire, by instinct with nothing in place to curb them. Nor was he to be reasoned with when things went awry— the kind of monster that Harri wasn’t used to dealing with. She watched in apprehension as clawed fingers shoved themselves into the pockets of his patched trousers, refusing to accept the goading. Instead, her attention shifted to look stubbornly past his shoulder, a nonverbal cue that she wasn’t willing to engage in conversation.

A passing second of quiet in which he refused to step aside, the grin growing wider as he inhaled deeply and nostrils flaring, “Ah, but there’s something else too. Different. There’s a change about you, pup.”

She ground her teeth at his assessment, grip tightening about the canteen and knees locking when he had moved forward. The uncanny way he was voicing her earlier fears made her wonder, briefly, if the werewolf was perhaps a natural legilimens, that he had some secret ability to read minds— or if her insecurities were just that plainly written across her face. Either way, it got to her. ‘Don’t pay him any mind. He’s just trying to provoke you,’ rationality warned, an acute ache on the roof of her mouth when he was apparently intent on disregarding personal boundaries. Her eyes abruptly snapped back to his, narrowing a fraction in warning and satisfied when he had seemingly gotten the hint to not come any closer. And, for the first time, she actually missed having Barty in her shadow— but, apparently, the man had been delegated to assisting in the interrogations.

“Move,” she commanded, shoulders squaring.

“Where’s your master anyways? Finally slipped his leash, eh? Or are you looking for a new one? If so, my offer still stands,” he chuckled lowly, spine straightening to draw himself up to his full height when his companions had jeered along in agreement.

“Funny. Out of the two of us, I think it’s quite clear who has a ‘master’ and who doesn’t,” she snapped, unable to hold her tongue any longer and refusing to be cowed— blazing eyes slipped down pointedly to his left arm before bouncing back up in a challenge.

“What are you even doing down here, Greyback? I don’t have time for your games,” her tone was hard as she took a pressing step forward.

“Me? Just checking out the goods,” was his casual response, lip curling in a betrayal of the fact that her words had struck a nerve, “Not much down here worth it though. But there’s a pretty little ginger further down that I reckon will make a fine addition.”

“No,” she seethed, revolted that he was even suggesting such a thing, “You aren’t touching her. She’s not _yours_ to claim so get that thought out of your head right now.”

A growl tore from his chest, the sound almost gravel-like, sharpened teeth flashing from behind pulled lips as he matched her step. The toes of his boots bumped against her own, “I have a deal with the Dark Lord. First dibs on any prisoners I want, no questions asked.”

“Not. Any. More,” Harri bit out, punctuating each word forcefully, eyes flashing brightly in her rising fury, “Consider that deal officially rescinded. She’s off-limits. If you have an issue with it, go take it up with Voldemort. But until then, get the hell out of my way.”

Fenrir was about to protest further, to show her he refused to listen, that the girl had no power to dictate what he could or couldn’t do when a hesitant tap on his shoulder drew his attention. He snarled at his companion, teeth bared and ready to enact upon violent discipline when it finally came to his attention that something was amiss. In the heat of their argument, it had gone unnoticed, too engrossed in trying to cow her— but the girl was leaking magic. It was acidic, sharp, the kind that forced itself down your throat whether you wanted it or not. The sort that had no qualms in suffocating you, in stealing away all oxygen until you were forced to comply for even a breath of sweet relief. Grey eyes darted to the wall’s sconces, the flames dimmed and the shadows lengthening, looming in a threat to extinguish all light in the earth below. And even he, the Alpha of his pack, the feared Fenrir that could change at the turn of a dime, wasn’t spared from the oppressive atmosphere flooding the corridor. In fact, it felt so similar that he might have mistaken it for the Dark Lord's unexpected appearance if he hadn’t relied on his other senses to ascertain that she was alone. The girl had taken advantage of his momentary surprise to shove past him, clipping his shoulder with a force that was barely even felt— save for the spark of electricity that coursed through the side of his body, a numbing prick that made his muscle spasm involuntarily.

“Oh, and Greyback? Do not let me catch you back down here,” she called out over her shoulder, pausing just outside of the cell’s door and waiting until he had turned to look at her.

“If I do, I promise you that it won’t end well,” the threat hung heavily between them, emerald eyes glowing with a warning— the corridor was plunged into darkness.


	54. ‘Anna Karenina'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I am so so so sorry-- I did not intend to take this long in between updates. Midterm week killed me 😂 But here it is! And at a reasonable-ish time during the day? Unheard of.
> 
> There are a few things I just want to address real quickly! 
> 
> 1\. After getting some feedback that the centered alignment wasn't working, I switched it to left-aligned. I was mainly writing in centered text to get myself into a more creative mode but have no problems changing it for readability. If you prefer one over the other, just let me know 💕
> 
> 2\. I am doing something with Gregorovitch/wand makers/Dark Lord politics that will be canon divergent but it'll mainly be discussed in the next chapter! For now, just know he's alive in this universe and hasn't been killed by Voldemort in the quest for the elder wand. 
> 
> As always, thank you so so much you guys for continuing to read along and for engaging with this fic even though it took me a while to get this update up! 💕 I really do appreciate it and I love every single one of you!
> 
> Enjoy 💕

* * *

* * *

“W-Who’s there?” a voice had floated out from somewhere beyond the veil of darkness, timid and catching uneasily on the question.

It took Harri a moment to actually place the tone, the flighty lilt of the vowels and the inherent rhythm nestled within each consonant— how long had it been? A few months at least, the memory of such a voice fading a touch further with every passing week. Yet, somehow, hearing it just made everything seem real, irrefutable. And truthfully, some part to her had been holding out hope, however small it may be, that it had been a mistake. That they had grabbed the wrong person amidst the scramble, a girl who only looked similar— that the youngest Weasley was still tucked away in the homely comforts of the Burrow, safeguarded by her mother’s embrace and removed from the cruelties of the world. But no. No, it truly was Ginny trapped in these cells, a graven reminder of how many lives had been upset by the Dark Lord’s presence— yanked up by the roots and left to rot from exposure. 

A pale hand fell from the concaved wall, dragging slowly against the rough stone. There was solace to be found in the burning scrape against the softness of her palm. Pain. It was the best possible reminder to avoid getting caught in the tide of emotions— the ones that battered mercilessly against the rocky shoreline of her focus. ‘Remember your task. Find out about the coin,’ a distant voice chided, an uneasy swallow as she struggled to formulate an answer.

“Sorry about the lights,” her response was a half-realised whisper, the words still carrying in the vacuum of quiet.

“….Harri? Harri, is that you!?”

The surprise in the demand was nearly palpable, its underlying hopeful note twisting unpleasantly in her stomach. Green eyes cut through the darkness to take in the hazy outline of a huddled shape against the farthest wall— the murky details of a frayed braid coming undone, the gleam of teeth worrying a chapped bottom lip. Though an undeniably strange development, her capacity for night vision had increased exponentially as of late, pushing almost into the boundaries of supernatural. And the cause for such had entirely escaped her comprehension— not that Harri was complaining. It certainly was useful. Like now, for example. A passing consideration crossed her mind to keep the dungeon dark, to not relight the sconces, and to prevent Ginny from actually seeing her. That earlier gripping fear was back tenfold, an irrational case of nerves— What if she was unrecognizable to the younger girl? What if Ginny refused to believe that it was actually her? What if she took one look at her clothes and decided that she was purposefully flaunting the luxury of a newly-found life to someone whose entire world consisted of second-hand robes, frayed sweaters, and patched jeans? ‘Maybe I should change— No, stop it. You’re working yourself up over nothing,’ her conscious reasoned, trying to remind herself that this was Ginny. And that now wasn’t the time to flee on an account of anxieties stemming from an issue as petty as outfit choices.

She willed fire to spread out into her fingertips. Flames appeared after a moment, steadily growing into an orb that danced along the cradle of the life and heart lines on her palm. The dampened stone walls were imbued with a brilliant orange glow, a warming contrast against the creeping decay of the prison. And as she blew gently, fanning the embers and sending fragments outwards to the extinguished torches, Harri debated on how to even proceed next. The canteen clipped to her belt felt heavy, a damning weight, the chain and ball about her ankles— honestly, she was tempted to just pour it out right then and there, let its deceit slosh against the ground and run muddy from its falsehood. But, then again, Voldemort would know if she didn’t heed his instructions— he somehow always knew. Absentmindedly shaking her hand to snuff out the spell, content when the cell was bathed in a decent amount of light, the witch settled on the strategy that had always served her most faithfully— winging it. Green eyes lifted then to take in the face of a not-quite-yet-almost stranger. Quiet ensued. A stifling hush as one studied the other, warring emotions felt for entirely different reasons. 

If Harri was being honest, the youngest Weasley looked, well, terrible. The girl had always been slender but there was an added gauntness to her frame now, a hollowness in her cheeks that spoke of immense stress. The freckled complexion was marred with dirt and sweat, off-set by a smattering of ghastly bruises that looked like a warped rendition of a Monet— and her hair, that bright coppery hair, was tangled, coming limply undone from the side braid. Even her clothes hadn’t been spared the effects of apparent hardship, the mauve jumper threadbare and dulled in colour. And the sickening thing was knowing that, while some of the appearance could be accounted for by the ensuing scuffle during her capture, most of it was a result of hiding. From living an existence dedicated to getting _her_ back, one of constant fear and unrest. How it caused guilt to surge, a heavy lump forming in the base of her throat at the revelation.

In every sense of the word, Harri looked— _wrong_ . When they learned the girl was being held captive at Malfoy Manor, left to the tender mercies of the Dark Lord and his followers, Ginny expected the worst— to perhaps hear her friend’s screams ricocheting off the earthen walls or to look upon a battered form riddled with scars, each one containing a story of months passed in torture. And yet the vision standing before her defied those expectations. Brown eyes passed critically over the looming form, widening marginally with surprise as the little details finally processed. Even though the redhead was dressed plainly, the cut and material of the ensemble spoke volumes as to how much it was all worth— a mind-boggling number nearly incomprehensible. The knee-high boots were polished until they shone like an onyx, the shuddering flames reflected in their pointed toes. And though the trousers were simple enough, a matte leather, their expense was obvious in the tailored cut— a testament to the skill of their creator as they clung to the contours of her legs. But it was the high-necked blouse tucked into the waistband that Ginny found herself consumed by, wholly unable to look away. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the one on display in Madam Malkin’s months ago— and the accompanying price tag had made her head spin. According to the placard, it was spun out of Mulberry silk. The fabric so luxe and smooth that her fingers itched to touch it back then, its buttons formed from white gold and inlaid with pearls— but how _Harri_ was possibly wearing it was the most startling thing. It was a well-known fact she possessed wealth, being the sole heiress to the Potter legacy and all— but to this extent? It seemed almost unfathomable.

Ginny blinked out of the starstruck stupor, looking past the puffed sleeves and elegant silhouette in shrewd evaluation for signs of abuse. For something, anything, that spoke to the horrors she had been preparing herself to see. There were none— in fact, what was found suggested quite the opposite. Even the loose fit of the silky material couldn’t hide the curves that she was almost certain hadn’t been there a year ago— the gentle swell of a chest and the rounding of hips attesting to her continuing health. Ginny’s attention drifted up to the heart-shaped face, blinking at the expression of abject horror it was sporting— though it did little to take away from the glow of her complexion, the vividness of those too-green eyes. ‘Was she wearing makeup?’ a muddled thought, perplexed by the discovery. When, in the entirety of her life, had Harri Potter ever willingly worn makeup? Yet there it was, plain as day in the way of mascara coating fanned lashes and a wine-red tint colouring full lips. Even her hair had been styled, the auburn strands artfully twisted back into a voluminous ponytail atop her crown. It was discomforting, a sense of deja vu in seeing the photo from the _Prophet_ all over again. Somehow this version was both Harri but also not at the same time— a phantom afterimage, a ghostly echo. And there was an air to this interpretation of her friend that clung to the soft lines of her body, a subtle sort of feeling hard to exactly pinpoint down in meaning— it set her on edge. 

At some point in her introspection, the girl had taken an uneasy step forward and Ginny’s curiosity was captured by the glint of silver. Pinned proudly to the hollow of Harri’s throat, stark against the black silk, was a circular medallion. A snake consuming its own tail, the single visible eye demarcated with a gleaming ruby— the formal crest of the Dark Lord.

Thoughts were beginning to whirl, panic heightening as things clicked into place. A sneaking suspicion souring in her mouth— ‘What if this isn’t her?’ After all, she was dressed like one might expect of a pureblood and Harri had always been quick to pass judgment upon the ‘ridiculousness’ of Draco’s clothing. The girl Ginny knew was tomboyish, preferring worn sneakers and oversized jumpers for the ‘ease and comfort’— never in her life would she consider dropping at least a year's salary on a _blouse_. And though her friend was undeniably talented in the areas of magic, often accomplishing death-defying feats, wandless casting wasn’t her specialty— but she had just conjured flames out of thin air, no wand in sight or verbal incantation necessary. None of it was adding up. Amber eyes narrowed a fraction, shrinking back against the wall and ignoring the seeping chill through the worn sweater.

“W-wait,” Ginny lifted her chin stubbornly, trying to ignore the spark of unease at the thought of a stranger wearing her friend’s face, “How do I really know you’re Harri?”

A flicker of hurt in those striking eyes and she froze mid-step— it was almost enough to make Ginny take it all back, to rush out in apology that she hadn’t meant it. ‘I’m just being cautious. They could be a really good actor,’ she tried to justify, stamping down the guilt at how wounded the girl looked, the way she was shifting the weight from one foot to the other.

“Oh. Right. Makes sense, I suppose, that you would want proof,” Harri tried to play it off with a forced laugh— the sound fell flat even to her ears.

A hand reached around to massage the back of her neck awkwardly, mind busied with the endeavour of finding a way to prove her identity— a satisfactory method to verify she actually was Harri and to earn her friend’s trust. But how does one even go about confirming their own identity? If she had a wand, she might have produced a patronus— and if Voldemort didn’t possess the same talent, she could have spoken in parseltongue. And though it had hurt, she couldn’t entirely fault Ginny’s apprehension either, the wariness flashing in those guarded eyes. ‘It’s only right,’ the inner voice defended, ‘given the context of everything.’ She blew out a shaky low exhale, toeing the dirt under her boots distractedly. 

“Alright, uhm, well let’s see. I know you’re Ginevra Molly Weasley and you’re the only daughter of Arthur and Molly,” she said slowly, “You were on the Gryffindor team as a Chaser when I was Captain. You also called your pygmy puff ‘Arnold’ because you thought it was a _‘very dignified name’_ , despite everyone saying otherwise. Oh, and you hoard issues of _Vogue_ under your bed.

“Your dream is to play on the Holyhead Harpies, you dated Dean Thomas off and on,” Harri added slyly, unable to stop the impish grin from growing, “But you had the biggest crush on Angelina Johnson for a while. And me, of course.”

There was a second where Ginny processed the facts, fixated stare becoming rather owlish in turn. They were all right, of course, and it was a surreal understanding to come to that the girl grinning down at her was truly the person she had been searching for. That it wasn’t some stranger masquerading as her, parading around in a cruel trick meant to inspire hope— only to shatter it at the last second with a heart-wrenching grand reveal. Harri had moved closer, crouching down to be eye level, and Ginny found herself obsessed with studying the delicate features of her face— the smiling rosebud mouth, the slightly upturned nose, the shapely arch of her brows. After not seeing it for so long, it was almost wondrous to behold, her mind working to impress those details onto its long-term memory.

“Blimey. You really are Harri, aren’t you?”

And then her mind saw fit to cling to the last fact, a mortified blush fanning freckled cheeks as she spluttered out in shock, “W-wait— you knew!?”

“Ron talks,” Harri explained apologetically, arms wrapping around Ginny’s thin shoulders and pulling her into a firm embrace.

“It’s good to see you again, Ginny” she muttered, chin resting atop the other girl’s crown.

And then it was as though the floodgates had been yanked open— Ginny’s arms flung about Harri’s waist to pull her closer. She rocked unsteadily on the balls of her feet at the unexpected strength, knees sinking to the ground for added stability as the younger of the two buried her face into a silk-covered shoulder. For a second, all was quiet in the cell. Peaceful, calm, tranquil. Then it was punctuated by the sounds of ragged sobbing. The emotions and stress that had been ever-so mounting were finally let go— and Harri didn’t mind letting the girl weep, barely registering the dampness of tears soaking her blouse. The entire ordeal must have been unfathomably taxing and it was remarkable she had held it together for this long. After all, not many 15-year-olds could say they’ve experienced being separated from their family, only to be shoved into a cell with no idea of their impending fate. Rather than attempt to offer up platitudes that everything was going to be fine, a lie that she was uncomfortable in telling, Harri only tightened the hold. Idle fingers set to the task of smoothing through the girl’s copper hair, doing their best to work free the tangles without too much disruption.

“I got you,” she whispered softly, “I got you, Gin.”

“Harri,” the name came out as a hiccup, Ginny finally pulling away and scrubbing at tear-reddened eyes with the dirtied backs of her hands, “It’s been awful. I kept just thinking the worst was happening to you— and then imagining he was coming—.

“Hey,” Harri frowned at the implications, “I promised you, back in the chamber right? That I wouldn’t let anything happen to you again? Not now, not ever.”

Her hands reached for the face marred by grime— the track left behind by the tears had done little to wash it away and, rather, cut a noticeable path down the curve of her cheeks. Harri met amber eyes evenly, heart sinking at the sheen of fear still held within them. Thumbs brushed over the highest points of her cheekbones, dragging and smearing the dirt in their arcing path. It was uncanny, she figured, how much Ginny probably resembled the version of herself from all those years ago in the graveyard— the same kind of bruises and the same kind of terror incited by the same kind of man. Save for one major difference— the younger girl would have a shield that she didn’t. Harri was determined to take up the helm of a protector, to safeguard and defend at any cost. It was the least she could do, a minor repayment in the overall debt owed to the Weasley family.

“You have my word, Ginny, that he won’t come down here,” she stated fiercely, green eyes blazing in a solemn promise, “I won’t let him.”

A slow nod of understanding came from Ginny, her face immediately pinching with dismay upon the realisation that she had cried on the blouse, apologising and fretting about its current state— Harri barely took notice. Rather, her attention had strayed upwards, latching onto a disconcerting sight that caused her shoulders to tense. There were rust-coloured flecks trailing up the side of her face, peeking out from under askew pieces of hair. A frown tugged the corners of her mouth downwards. Numbed fingers brushed the strands aside and her jaw clenched at the ensuing discovery. ‘Blood.’ It was dried, already flaking off the skin— a testament that some time had passed since it was fresh. And the culprit of such was a wound, just barely clotted over, and impressed into the tender spot of the temple along the hairline. The curling edges were pink with the tells of creeping infection, a gruesome sight that suggested it was far deeper than it initially appeared— and judging by the patterned imprints, it was seemingly caused by an unkind hand sporting a signet or heavy ring. Something burrowed deep within the confines of her chest, slipping in between the empty spaces of her ribs and leeching away the warmth brought on by the joy of their reunion. No one had seen fit to mention Ginny was injured— her teeth ground against one another, fingers twitching imperceptibly at the fact that someone had considered it permissible to enact violence upon an already wandless girl.

“Who did this?” the question was cutting, her lips barely moving.

The unexpected coldness in her voice left Ginny rigid and, truthfully, more than mildly startled by the sudden change in demeanor. In light of everything, she had forgotten entirely about the pain, too caught up in the riptide of emotions to pay it any mind. But when fingers had lightly brushed over it, the ensuing ache caused her to wince. Nervous eyes darted over her friend’s expression, searching with bated breath for the first signs of anger to appear— everyone knew of the infamous Potter temper, the hotheadedness that arose whenever her control slipped. And while she couldn’t fault the girl for such passion, finding it rather endearing when it evolved out of defense in another’s stead, it still worried her all the same. Especially now, considering the context of their situation— rushing out in an act of vengeance against a Death Eater was bound to end up terribly. When her response finally came, it was slow, hesitant.

“O-oh, um,” Ginny said, “He was the one who uhm brought me here. Tall, dark-haired, narrow jaw. With a, uh, stubble, I think?” 

‘Dolohov, then,’ Harri’s mind supplied, tongue running over her canines in deliberation. There was no one else who would fit that description among the higher ranks, she was certain of it— and he did hold a nasty reputation of being quite sadistic, his company the distasteful sort that made one’s skin crawl. That writhing sensation had ceded to wrath, restless in nature and straining against the limitations of her skin. A singing urge for karmic retribution. An eye for an eye— a price that demanded to be paid in full. Featherlight touches traced the outer edges of the impression, ice circulating in her veins as her imagination sought to provide all of the details that Ginny had seemingly left out. The girl being pushed into the cell, a hand raised when she tried to run past him, the sickening sound of skin splitting, her falling to the ground from the blunt force.

The temperature began to drop and Ginny’s gaze darted warily about the prison. A gust of arctic air had cut through them, a cruel sting that ate past the loose-knit of her jumper— it did little to help ward off the chill, the prickling flesh left in its biting wake evidence of such. She was engrossed by the dipping flames of the torches, how they shuddered and shivered as though a mirror to herself. It felt unnatural, wrong— the dungeons were drafty, of course, but never to this extent. Whitened puffs of breath occupied the spaces between their bodies, crystallising as their internal heat waged war against the outward frost. And just as she was about to open her mouth to comment on the abrupt change, to hear another’s speculation as to what it might mean, an odd fact was brought to the forefront. Harri wasn’t shivering. In fact, she seemed entirely unaffected by the absence of heat. ‘It’s coming from her.’

A startling revelation, wide eyes snapping in alarm to the auburn-haired witch. The coldness seizing her heart and burning her lungs with every inhale, the same one that caused her teeth to chatter relentlessly— it was all originating from _Harri_ . Desperately, Ginny searched for any of the usual signs, for those minute tells that something was amiss. None were found. The jutted chin, the quivering lower lip, the slightest flare of her nostrils— all of the things she had come to associate with her friend’s anger were missing. Rather, the older girl seemed borderline stoic, too still, too quiet— like the soul had left its body on a jaunt, drifting far beyond the iron bars of the prison’s gate to a place Ginny was unable to reach. A stirring in her core, a perturbing sense, an irrational notion— she was _scared_. Harri, her Harri, was warm even in her fury. She was blazing, the embodiment of a sun that threatened to blind and burn— a cosmic force ready to swallow them all with her unyielding light. This glacial coldness was the exact opposite. It burned for entirely different reasons and it left her beyond terrified at its implications.

And then she saw it. A glimpse, a passing second so quick that Ginny might have attributed to an overtired mind finally cracking under stress— a ludicrous detail stemming from exhaustion. Yet, it was hard to fully chalk it up to delirium when she viscerally felt the effects of terror. Her eyes had changed. They were riveted in seemingly memorising the wound, glazing over with a distant look— but she had still witnessed it nonetheless. Those emerald eyes, a hue of such vivid green that it often left her knotted with envy, had flashed _red_ . The same shade that haunted her dreams, a waking nightmare anytime she braved a peek at the morning’s copy of the Prophet and saw his face plastered on the front— crimson, an uncanny resemblance to freshly spilled blood. Her heart, reduced to a dulling beat, had nearly stopped, an audible hitch as Ginny struggled to swallow past the pocket of a half-realised breath stuck in her throat. Every instinct was screaming to flee, to run from that hellfire, to escape before it could consume her— yet the limbs refused to respond, paralysed even when Harri’s eyes had slipped closed. ‘No, no no no,’ looped, a dizzying tide of sickness when searching fingers reached outwards, firmly resting upon her temples and caging her in. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be _him—_ it just couldn’t. There was a spark, a prickling radiating outwards from the older girl’s touch. Ginny started to struggle, desperate to break free of the hold, panicked by the unusual sensation— the acute ache on the side of her head suddenly lessened.

One blink, and then two as Ginny’s own shaking fingers reached up hesitantly, stunned to feel the roughness of a scab under their pads. ‘She healed me?’ Fear took a backseat to surprise, bewilderment, and guilt when those eyes had reopened, crushing relief upon seeing that familiar green once more. Rationality chastised herself for assuming the worst, for even putting stock into the absurd notion that it was possibly the Dark Lord. ‘It was my imagination,’ a small voice tried to blame the lack of sleep, ‘Deprivation and nerves, that’s all.’ Yet even when she tried to return the sheepish half-smile, to completely believe it had been a hallucination, Ginny found herself unable to shake off the nagging feeling of wrongness. That something wasn’t normal nor kosher about her friend— a deep underlying instinct begging her to remain on guard, to not forget the out of place behaviour or resulting fear.

“Sorry. I’m not the best at healing so it’ll have to do for now,” Harri explained, flexing her hand and trying to chase off the pinpricks that robbed it of feeling. 

“At least until I can get my hands on some dittany,” she mumbled, studying the glossy sheen of newly formed skin and pleased enough that the infection had been curbed.

“It’s alright, really- Harri!” Ginny exclaimed in alarm, shuffling as the other girl moved to sit beside her along the wall, “Your nose— it’s bleeding!”

The sensation of warmth trickling caused Harri to frown, the taste of metal bright upon her tongue when some had slipped past the seal of her lips. Pale fingers reached up tentatively, only to pull away when they were coated by a tacky scarlet. Faint warning bells went off. By all accounts, the timing was odd and likely far from coincidental— and it wasn’t the first one of this nature either. In fact, such occurrences had become so commonplace in the past few weeks that they had begun to lose their edge of surprise. ‘You really should let him know,’— and there it was, the voice that sounded an awful lot like Hermione. A snort at such chidings, she fished a charcoal handkerchief out of the trouser’s pockets. ‘It can be dealt with later,’ was her firm decision, stubbornly pressing the cloth to her nose to stanch the bleeding.

“It’s fine,” her auburn crown bumped against the carved stone, trying not to dwell on the nauseating feeling of blood slipping down the back of her throat, “It’ll stop on its own.”

An awkward silence settled between them. Now that there was a chance for it to flourish, the quiet took the opportunity to do so as both girls tried to process the last hour loaded with nerves and emotions. The youngest Weasley was the one to finally break it, awkwardly clearing her throat and shifting uncertainly to draw her knees up to her chest— though the heat was slowly returning, it was offset by the residual chill of the ground.

“So,” Ginny said, “What’s uh, with the clothes? I mean, I’ve never seen you wear anything like that before. And it’s not like you to spend money on limited edition designs.”

Harri debated on how to answer that particular question. Somehow, claiming the Dark Lord had rather peculiar tastes didn’t exactly seem appropriate given the circumstances. Nor could she really insist to have picked them out either— not with her past experience, or ‘disasters’ as Lavender liked to call them, in the fashion department. She spared a glance down to the blouse with a twinge of embarrassment— truthfully, she had chosen it since it seemed less offensive than the dresses, thinking there was no way a simple shirt could cost that much. ‘Guess I was wrong.’ 

In the end, her tongue moved on autopilot, opting for the safest possible route, “Narcissa has high standards. Seeing I’m his ward and all.”

“Right— forgot about the ‘ward’ business. Who’s Narcissa?”

“Malfoy. Draco’s mother,” Harri supplied, taking note of the guarded quality the younger girl’s voice had adopted.

“I see,” Ginny’s finger traced a pattern into the dirt floor idly, a thousand heavy questions queued yet none of them willing to be voiced for fear of ruining the comfortable moment, “And you can do wandless magic now?”

Harri twisted to eye the girl, a roguish smirk pulling on wine-tinted lips, “You sure bet I can.”

“Wicked,” admiration animated those brown eyes and lended them a lively sheen.

The warmth was unbidden in Harri’s chest at that, the inflections and wide grin reminding her so much of Ron that it wasn’t hard to see the similarities between siblings. It was a fleeting period of easiness, of how things used to be— and a part of her wanted it to never end. If she just closed her eyes and ignored the dripping sounds of water, the uncomfortable press of stone, the numbing sting of the floor, she could almost picture them back in the common room. Chatting so freely, so casually about whatever struck their fancy— an untroubled kind of companionship that marked different times. But then her eyes opened and the illusion was shattered. That era had passed, needed to be forgotten. Ginny didn’t have a place in this world, _her_ world, not anymore. The life Harri was leading and the future she was going to herald wasn’t one that would be kind to someone like Ginevra Weasley— it would tear, warp, and destroy, take that purity of hers and utterly obliterate it. ‘Then remember what you’re here for. Get information. Free her.’ Fingers curled around the flask, nerves strung tightly, and conscience ladened with guilt. Yet she couldn’t completely deny the fear from earlier, the distrust and apprehension. The veritaserum had to be a necessary evil, one that was justified as being a safeguard, an added precaution— nothing more.

“I brought you some water,” there was ash in her mouth, the words sticking on her tongue as a souring taste, “I’m assuming you haven’t had any yet.”

Some part had wanted Ginny to refuse, to be smart and deny the offer— to recognise the concealed dangers resting in the innocent canteen. Because at least then Harri could explain she tried, could leave here without the perverse feeling of contrition from deceiving her friend. But the younger girl took it without hesitation, the rushed out gratitude a knife digging into the wound caused by her unwitting deceit. The auburn-haired witch strived to ignore the sound of the cap unscrewing, the heavy and greedy gulps as the laced water was consumed in abandon. _‘It’s her own fault for being this stupid,’_ there was a snide voice, cruel and mean that made her teeth clench. ‘Shut up.’ Removing the handkerchief, noting in passing the bleeding had stopped, she folded it obsessively in on itself. Once. Twice. Three times— until the sound of drinking ceased and the emptied container was passed back.

“How’s everyone doing?” Harri asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking, “Has anyone new joined recently?”

There was a low hum as Ginny stretched her arms over her head, “Fine, I suppose. Hasn’t been easy, of course, but everyone’s pretty hopeful. There’s still the usual bunch, Remus and Sirius, Mum and Dad, and whatnot. But—oh, you’ll never believe it!”

Excitement bled into her voice, triumph evident as the younger girl shifted to face Harri, “Percy’s joined!”

Harri remained silent, fingers digging into the softness of her thigh and gaze set firmly on the ceiling. ‘Another name added to a doomed cause,’ the assessment was bitter, morose, forming before she could stop it.

“He’s been keeping us informed of what’s happening at the official level. Since he’s a secretary and all to Avery, it’s been pretty helpful actually. Of course, Percy doesn’t attend the meetings but he does send letters often. Mum’s thrilled,” Ginny rambled on eagerly. 

“Then there’s Neville and Luna-”

“Why?” Harri’s question slipped out involuntarily, lips moving in the whisper.

Ginny abruptly fell silent, brows furrowing in bewilderment, “Pardon?”

“I mean, why did _you_ join?” she tucked the soiled cloth back into her pocket, tone coming out sharper than originally intended, “It’s dangerous, especially now— he’s _furious_ , Gin. There’s a reason why the Order failed the first time and he wasn’t even as powerful back then.” ” 

“Bu- I wanted to get you back, of course,” Ginny fumbled for a response, caught off-guard by the unforeseen reprimand, “I love you, Harri. You saved me years ago and it’s my turn to do the same.”

And knowing that was the irrefutable truth, the most honest answer Ginny could have possibly given just somehow made it all the more terrible. This girl, this brave, naive girl who wore her heart upon her sleeve and devoted herself wholly to the concept of ‘love’ was going to pay for it in the end— and, by extension, it was Harri’s own fault. Green eyes screwed themselves closed, striving to choke down the frustrated scream that she had done nothing to deserve that kind of commitment, that loyalty, that affection. That it wasn’t worth dying over— because truly, it didn’t matter. A dark side of her personality wanted to bitterly laugh, to agree with the cynical voice that the youngest Weasley was, indeed, being foolish. After all, how could she even be “saved” at this point? The entirety of her life, her future, her body was irrevocably tied to the man they all sought to liberate her from— the same man that, in the literal sense of the word, was her soulmate. Or, perhaps, a better reworking would just be ‘soul’? Plus, in the end, it was he that would be walking the same path of immortality. It was he that would exist on this plane long after Ginny was reduced to mere dirt and ash— ‘Stop it.’ Harri tried to banish the negativity, the deprecation that the horcrux shard often sought to foster. Another development as of late that it was growing more active— a troubling turn of events she was content on ignoring. 

“I’m trying to negotiate with him into releasing you,” Harri reached up to tighten her ponytail, itching to do something, anything, a bursting need to find an outlet before she imploded.

“Wait, what-?” 

“But Gin, I need you to tell me something important,” emerald eyes slid to the younger girl, a cutting look that spoke of urgency, “He has a gold coin. You were the only person who had one. What is it?”

In the back of her mind, Harri could feel his presence flickering, the insistent tugging on their bond clear enough in its meaning— ‘Time’s running out.’ Voldemort was growing impatient, attempting to summon her back to him— and considering Ginny’s fate rested in his, albeit mercurial, hands, it was probably best to heed that particular call. Her gaze narrowed ever so slightly at the paling of the girl’s face, the stricken expression of horror that rendered her mute. Thin hands, fingers long and delicate, darted out to clutch at a grime-coated pair, rubbing insistent swipes across their palms.

“It’s important, Ginny. I can’t save them without knowing the details,” she repeated.

It took a second for it to sink in and then Ginny was frantically shaking her head, the loosened braid coming undone, “Oh no, no, no no _no_. Harri, you have to take it back. He can’t know what they are, I’m begging you.”

She leaned forward, a heavy swallow as brown eyes darkened with dismay, “If he does, he can find them. They’re portkeys, Harri. Meant to be used in emergencies and linked to our base. They have an incantation to activate their magic but I know he can figure it out.”

The world slowed at the disclosed confession— the pleading only a distant sound that Harri had trouble registering, growing murkier as she delved into her thoughts. ‘A portkey.’ There was ingenuity behind the idea, that much was undeniable, and one did have to applaud the Order for their cleverness. After all who would suspect something so mundane, so commonplace, as a coin to hold that much importance? Yet, there was also unfathomable stupidity in the concept— was no consideration given as to what might happen if it fell into the wrong hands? As it currently stood, the only thing preventing the Dark Lord from storming their stronghold was a mere chant, a simple arrangement of letters— one that she, like Ginny, had full faith in his abilities to decode. A throaty groan bubbled up, hands wrenching out of the girl’s grip to scrub down her face in panicked frustration. The chaos of her mind was struggling to formulate a strategy, a plan that might allow her to orchestrate the situation from a disaster to an advantage. _‘A bloody portkey.’_

“Alright. I’ll get it back from him,” she finally relented, wincing at the stiffness in her legs— the caps of her knees popped in protest.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“He’s calling me, Gin. I have to leave,” she paused to glance over her shoulder, noting the desperation pinching the younger girl’s expression.

“I’ll be back soon, though. You have my word,” Harri lingered for as long as she would dare, waiting until there was a small acquiescing nod in response before slipping out the cell door— the iron gate swung shut behind her with a grating screech, the turning of the lock damning in more ways than one.

* * *

* * *

Harri’s strides were long and purposeful as she turned herself over to the instinctual call, legs functioning autonomously to guide her to its source. A moth drawn to an open flame, a planet helpless against the gravitational pull of its sun— the inherent rhythm of their relationship. That, without even meaning to, some portion to her always sought him out, was keenly aware of his position, his location, his temperament. She had found it best not to dwell on the implications— though sometimes it was hard not to when all was quiet. Like now, for instance. Compared to earlier, the corridors were mostly abandoned, the click of her boots against the polished tile thunderous in their echoes. The chaotic scramble and flurry of activity was lacking— but as she veered sharply to the left, it wasn’t difficult to hazard as to where they had disappeared off to. Carved oak doors, looming and austere in their grandness, stood proudly at the end of the hall and the girl strived to suppress the tide of exasperated dread. ‘Of course, he’s having a meeting.’ Frankly, an assembly was the last thing she felt like dealing with, temper fouling at the dawning revelation she had been summoned late on purpose. ‘Sadistic bastard,’ a resentful thought, fingers curling about the silver handle. For reasons quite unbeknownst to her, Voldemort loved his dramatic entrances— a little fact to his egomaniacal personality that would be met with outright denial if ever pointed out. And whenever his own chance had passed by, the man found perverse enjoyment in living vicariously through her instead.

A low exhale through her nose as she shook loose the tension held in slight shoulders, a bid to keep the dungeon’s conversations from the forefront of her thoughts. ‘Don’t let him see— avoid eye contact and it’ll be fine.’ Harri only cracked the door wide enough to slip past, the plan being to enter unnoticed and cling to the shadowed peripheries. Fate, however, had a different idea as it felt it appropriate to bestow a screech upon the hinges, an alarming sort of sound that was bound to garner attention. ‘So much for that.’ Sparing a mutinous glance towards the ceiling, cursing every possible god she knew of, Harri steeled herself for the inevitable. Eyes, more pairs than what was comfortable, trained upon her— burning and insufferable in their weight. Stiff legs marched determinedly onward, a struggle to look outwardly unhurried, relaxed, but also itching to reach the safety of her seat. 

“Ah, Harri. There you are,” Voldemort greeted from the throne, interlaced fingers perched atop the mahogany table, “I was beginning to wonder whether you had gotten lost or not.”

“Come, sit. I’m afraid we have already started but Avery can fill you in on the particulars,” he motioned towards the empty spot by his side.

A mounting urge to be antagonistic made itself known at the amusement practically rolling off the man. Her gaze narrowed, an acidic retort, with a healthy dose of sarcasm to back it, already forming— and knowing some of the purebloods would, undoubtedly, have a conniption at such ‘inexcusable disrespect’ certainly didn’t help temper that desire. She snorted, ready to snipe back when a certain head of dark-hair caught her attention. Seated near the end, hooded eyes fixated impassively on the green flames shuddering in the mantle— ‘Dolohov.’

The anger that had been mostly quelled came back in a surge, unchecked by a formidable kind of vengeance. Embers were being fanned, the sight of those rings glinting upon his fingers only serving to be dry kindling. Ladened with ostentatious luxury, Harri never knew it was possible to despise _hands_ the way she did now. And as her eyes roamed over each one, a spiteful debate was being made as to which one had been the culprit in damaging Ginny’s face— the gold signet was most likely, considering its bulk, the thickness of the band, the intricate pattern. A pathetic attempt made by a pathetic man to visibly showcase his worth. ‘Disgusting.’ Along the roof of her mouth was an acute ache, a pulsating drum within her ears, the world tunneling— a predator approaching its unaware prey, the warm spray of blood and crunch of shattering bone when imaginary canines sunk into its throat. Flames licked up the knobs of her spine— Harri ignored the questioning look of Voldemort, knowing full and well such feelings were seeping over into their connection. Rather, she stalked with singular motive to the carved chair, an insatiable itch bursting across her skin.

“My Lady?” Dolohov questioned with a perplexed frown, brought out of his musings by her unexpected approach.

There was a blur of pale flesh, a sweeping arc as the back of her hand cut through the air— a reverberant crack ensuing. Even though Harri was aware that she, herself, should feel some pain, especially seeing how his head had snapped to the left, such a thing was absent— rather it was that sneaking wrath she felt most intensely. It numbed all other sensations in comparison, rendered them as empty imitations. Silence. Tensed and weighty, drawn breaths held and refusing to be let go. A cool glare was fixed down on his stunned form, eyes lent a toxic glow from the spite churning in her system— and swirling at their centers was warped satisfaction that only grew at the sight of the violent aftermath. The split lip, the wet sheen of blood, the ruby droplets scattered heavily on the marbled floor. Already a grotesque redness was blooming across that gaunt cheek, startling in contrast to his usual pallor. ‘Pity. I should have asked to borrow a ring first.’ The hand that hadn’t slapped him came to land heavily on the table between his chair and the neighbouring one, the sound amplified in the quiet. Nails curling into the wood, a subtle threat, Harri leant down closer to the man and took a moment to consider the way he was massaging his jaw in muted disbelief.

“If I _ever_ ,” her words slipped out as a whisper, each syllable laced with vitriol, “Catch you raising a hand against a woman or child again. Well. Let me assure you— that will be the last day you. Have. _Hands_.”

When a dark gaze lifted to bore into her own, lit up from their depths by bitter hostility, Harri simply smiled. A flash of her teeth, an unspoken challenge for him to act upon such a thing. He didn’t— and not that he could, she figured, considering the Dark Lord was keenly watching the entire interaction barely 2 feet away. But nonetheless, it felt good to have an outlet, a release for that anger, to find a suitable target to feed to the beast— in fact, she almost wished Dolohov would retaliate. At least then she would have sound enough cause to make him bleed a touch more, make him feel, _hurt_. The man must have seen something in her eyes for he suddenly broke contact, allowing his own to hastily slip to the ground. And there it was. A strange, though not entirely unwelcome, sense of predatory contentment at the fear she had incited, the one thing that cemented her victory of the moment. ‘Good.’ 

The buzzing in her mind had lessened and an awareness came rushing back. Without the armour of anger to shield from such, Harri felt vulnerable— the prying looks slipped through the cracks, the crevices, passing over her in incredulous shock and unfiltered affront. Though she knew why, of course. In their world, conflict was solved through magic and cutting words— purebloods, or even honorary ones who laid claim to ancient houses, weren’t meant to enact muggle violence upon one another. Even Dolohov, as despicable as he was, adhered to that rule, only ever getting physical with those below his perceived station. Then again, when had she ever followed societal conventions? What was it that Voldemort had called her, once upon a time? ‘Right. _Feral_.’ The girl straightened her spine, chin lifting evenly to try to portray a blasé attitude about it all, and struggled to keep her steps measured.

Harri slipped into the lesser throne, hand rubbing absentmindedly along the column of her throat. The continuing quiet was becoming unbearable and she shifted uneasily, praying, wishing, for someone to break it. ‘Nagini’s not here,’ a fierce longing that the snake would somehow turn up. And to make matters even worse, crimson eyes were tracing over her profile. An added weight that made her itch, squirm, it was the kind of insistent probing that vaguely reminded her of being dissected— like how a scientist might look at a new specimen under the lens of a microscope, increasing the magnification with each pass in hopes of spotting something new, something game changing. She twisted to demand he knock it off, to get the meeting on with when there was a change in their bond— ‘The prick’s amused.’ And sure enough, the signs were all there. In the twitching corners of his mouth as a smile was suppressed, the crossing and uncrossing of his legs, the gleam darkening his eyes to a richer shade. Yet there was something else just below the surface, its meaning difficult to pinpoint. A shriek, however, interrupted her contemplations, a grating sound that elicited hair to rise— and it made her nearly groan at who the culprit was. ‘Of bloody course.’

“She knows how to play!” the peals of delighted laughter from Bellatrix shattered the suspended moment, rowdy with glee as she nudged the shoulder of her husband, “Itty, bitty, baby Potter knows how to play!” 

Dolohov shot the Lestrange woman a dirty look at her unrestrained merriment, dabbing at his broken lip with a healthy dose of contempt— Harri found herself, oddly enough, agreeing. It was an uncanny talent of Bellatrix’s to sour just about any possible moment. And, somehow, that earlier sense of accomplishment felt trivial now, diminished by the woman’s incessant need to belittle. How it made her teeth nearly crack, fingers gripping the scrolls of the throne’s armrests to stifle the need to make her swallow down those words. Around the table, life was coming back as some saw fit to follow the general’s lead, laughing in a forced manner, while others whispered conspiratorially to their neighbour. Even positioned at the head, snippets were still heard: ‘wild’, ‘uncouth’, ‘youths today, so tempermental.’ It felt as though she were being chastised, instinctually bristling at their unwarranted assessments. They liked talking, always seemingly having a critique on this or that— yet the Death Eaters would miraculously turn mute if she ever outright confronted them. It was _maddening_.

“What was that about?” Voldemort questioned, leaning towards her in the illusion of private conversation.

On her periphery, he was frowning at the stubborn lack of an answer. _‘You’re being belligerent’_ — there was undeniable truth to the statement. However, Harri just couldn’t really bring herself to care, too occupied in her own introspection. Why had she slapped the man in the first place? There were plenty of other ways she could have handled the situation, more peaceful solutions that wouldn’t have ended up with bloodshed or disdainful whispers. And it wasn’t like she was a violent person by nature— so just why had it felt so _good_? Why had she wanted to make him bleed further, mangle him? Had threatened to do just that? The girl couldn’t bring herself to look up, already predicting what would be awaiting— Narcissa’s face pinched in concern, unable to keep the shadows of disappointment out of her pale eyes, and Severus with his shrewd appraisal. Rather, Harri busied herself with tracing the white veins against the black marble floor.

When it became apparent there was no answer to be had, the Dark Lord shifted away from his horcrux and spared one last critical glance over her. Something was amiss, that much was blatantly obvious— though whether the witch was aware of exactly _what_ was an entirely different question. A mental note was made to investigate it at a later time, preferably in private and away from prying eyes. For now, he settled for clearing his throat, the effect instantaneous as a hush blanketed the room. 

“As we were discussing before,” there was a sweep of the elder wand, “The matter of the Order and the items confiscated from their persons.” 

Several items had appeared in the center of the table, a puzzling array that was rather innocuous upon a first glimpse. A wand the colour of aspen and stained with drying blood— whose, exactly, Harri didn’t want to know. A silver spyglass imprinted with the initials ‘A.M’ and terribly dented on one side. A crumpled piece of parchment raggedly torn, the names smeared and splattered with heavy ink blots— and there, the coin. She stiffened at the sight of it, mind whirling as the glass was suspended in the air for all to see. Someone was droning in the background about its owner, utter drivel that led it to being dismissed as unimportant not even a few minutes later. The parchment, though incomplete, was apparently part of a larger ledger that Malfoy had managed to snag, his tone boastful upon launching into a long-winded recollection of the ordeal in obtaining it.

‘Think, Harri, think.’ Thoughts were rushing by at a dizzying speed, blurring into an incoherent mess that was of little help. She needed to give Voldemort something to prove that she was upholding her end of their deal, that she was capable of playing both the interrogator and spy when needed— but revealing the full truth would be damning. Fingers drummed impatiently against her thigh, unable to stop from fidgeting as nerves knotted themselves. Twisting, looping, tightening— she felt sick. The coin was held aloft, throat suddenly parched and tongue deadened when the Dark Lord had turned expectantly towards her.

Clearing her throat stiffly, a warning whispered in her mind not to meet his eye— she became fixated by the medallion twirling lazily above the table instead. It was catching the light on each rotation, the glint mocking in its reminder that time was running up nor that she could keep stalling forever. A shaky inhale, Harri vainly tried to feign indifference, to conceal any anxieties— and the creeping feeling that she wasn’t succeeding didn’t serve to bolster confidence.

“Uhm,” her heart hammered against her ribs, warmth leeching away as she could feel his curiosity peaking— rather than deterring, she was encouraging his interest. ‘Come on, Harri. Do better— lives are at stake for Merlin’s sake.’

“It’s a portkey,” she settled for an answer, striving to keep the tone level while fingers folded in her lap to stop their nervous tics.

When murmurs began to ripple, excited little things, Harri hummed and prayed her lie could be convincing enough, “But it won’t help much. Apparently, it’s only good for a single use and the landing location is randomised each time. The Order carries them around for emergencies and link up whenever they can. That one is as good as a dud, I imagine.”

A second and then two passed before she shrugged, slouching against the throne’s high back and crossing silk-covered arms to feign boredom. It was a ruse, a facade Harri was desperately trying to sell— one that was far from the reality. In fact, the truth could be found in her flighty pulse, how it skipped every other beat, and in the clammy sheen coating her skin. ‘I’m an idiot. I can’t lie,’ it was a mess inside her head, thoughts muddled and strung together, ‘He’s going to see right through it. And once he knows I’m keeping information from him, game over—.’ 

“I see.”

It took every ounce of her will not to look up in wide-eyed surprise at the neutrality of his response, the casualness in those 2 little words— almost as though he had believed it. Some part of her did wonder if he was only playing along, choosing to indulge her for now and was filing away this little infraction to use at a later date. After all, it wouldn’t be out of his character to do so. But then another part was clinging to the hope, the notion, that maybe, just maybe, she had pulled it off. Harri didn’t quite dare to meet his gaze, not yet. Though, when the coin was lowered back into the row and the bloodied wand was lifted up in its stead, she did allow herself to release the breath that had been burning in her lungs.

“A shame, indeed. Then what about this?” Voldemort inquired, fingers grazing over the knobbed ridges of the elder wand.

“Yes, My Lord,” Nott spoke from three spots down, hands clasped together and resting on the table, “We have determined the maker to be Mykew Gregorovitch.”

The Dark Lord went rigid, entirely too still and scarlet eyes glazing over in distant thought— it was as though he had been suspended in time, impervious to the passing seconds. The body situated in the throne had become a temporary placeholder, the soul fleeting and untethered to the realms of consciousness. Wherever it had gone was not a place for the masses, for the mere commoner to intrude upon. Several beats passed, a tranquil nothingness. And then sudden clarity trickled back in, jaw clicking in a show of vexed deliberation as his grip tightened minutely.

“Gregorovitch? Are you certain?”

“Quite sure, My Lord. And it looks to be recently made as well,” Nott explained with a grimace.

“That’s impossible. He’s supposed to be in retirement,” Lucius interjected his opinion, brows knitting together.

The palpable tension caused Harri to frown, gaze darting about the confused faces and trying to read the underlying context— they all seemed so unnerved by the mention of the man. Who was Gregorovitch? And why were they acting like it was a graven crime for a wandmaker to be continuing his craft? Considering the average lifespan of a wizard, it wasn’t so strange of a notion that he may have simply gotten bored and decided to reopen his doors for business. But just as she was about to question the turn of conversation, to demand answers, there was a voice in her head— _his_ . The message had been interwoven into the patterns of her thoughts, the kind of firm command that left no room for compromise: _‘I will explain later.’_

“And the registered owner?” Voldemort’s eyes slid shut, fingers steepled before him as though occupied in silent prayer— a mockery of reverent worship.

Nott flipped through the stack of notes, watery eyes scanning for the correct line, “Anna…Karenina? There’s no one in the Isles recorded to have that name, however.”

The Dark Lord spoke in a deceptively calm tone, far too quiet, unmoving, “Fenrir. Go to Europe, track Gregorovitch down, and bring him here. _Alive_.”

A scraping sound of wood against stone, chairs being pushed out, a grunt of acknowledgment and the roar of the mantle springing to life— none of it was really paid any attention to, however, the rustling fading into white noise. The name was a familiar one and it settled as a comfortable weight upon her tongue, rolling off with ease— but where had she heard it before? ‘Anna Karenina’.

> Flashes of a late spring, unseasonably warm, two girls tucked away under the budding branches of the willow tree. They had just finished their exams and fled to the comforts of the outdoors, eyes strained and fingers marked with ink. One on her stomach, plucking at the new growth of the grass, rolling around and stretching in contentment. The other nestled against the base of the trunk, looking up from the age-worn novel in her lap. The dog-eared pages and cracked spine spoke volumes to how well-loved it was— stern, yet soft, reprimands that the other girl was soiling her blouse with stains, that her skirt was hitching up to an immodest degree. A tongue stuck out in protest, a fistful of torn grass tossed her way— a good-natured shriek. _‘Honestly, Harri! Have some respect for Tolstoy.’_ Hands lovingly brushing off the remnants from the jade green cover, tongue clicking disapprovingly— gold cursive on the front, the A and K bordering on the obnoxious in their flourish: _Anna Karenina_ . 

The wand was Hermione’s. 


	55. An Impending Denouement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I hope everyone is doing well and staying healthy as we get into colder weather (if it's still warm where you are at, know that I am very envious 😂)
> 
> As a warning, this chapter might be a bit dense and is rather canon divergent. There are references to things that happened earlier on in the fic but don't worry if you don't recall them right away as they are contextualised in the dialogue! I am so excited to get to this point in the story because this chapter lays the groundwork for the upcoming arc + ties together some of the loose threads for the previous two arcs. I hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> And as usual, thank you to everyone who has been leaving me such kind comments/reviews/bookmarks/kudos! 💕 You are all seriously the best and honestly make this whole process worth it-- thank you for being amazing readers 💕

* * *

* * *

Harri couldn’t remove her eyes from the floating wand as it lazily rotated in place. In the oddest of sense, it reminded her of a dancer— a prima ballerina on her final act, bloodied and worn down from the unkind years spent upon the stage and ready to bid adieu come the closing curtain. A fitting analogy, she figured, for the second it would be lowered back down, Hermione’s fate, the Order’s fate, would be decided. And how her mind spun, thoughts tripping and plans falling apart at the seams. Though, panic set aside, the aspen truly did suit the girl— as beautifully made as she with a firm, underlying steadfastness. Yet, it was equally perturbing to behold something else other than the vine wand she had grown so accustomed to seeing— and to know that the blood marring its ivory veneer was her friend’s. ‘Hermione, what are you doing?’

“The date of production doesn’t quite match how old the wand actually is,” Nott explained hastily, flipping through his notes, “It says here it was stamped with the date of April 10, 1930. Yet, the core hasn’t fully fused with the wood and the spell history suggests it was first used only 2 months ago.”

“He is covering his tracks then,” Voldemort mused, fingers engaged in a rhythmic drumming against the mahogany table, “Stamping the wands with production dates that would coincide with when he was in business. How clever.”

She only half-heard their discussions, far too occupied with keeping the contents of that morning’s breakfast down. ‘First the coin and now this?’ It felt as though she were climbing a mountain— every time a challenge was evaded, every time she thought she could glimpse the plateaued peak that would ensure peace, another issue arose. A boulder tumbling down. The path suddenly lost in the underbrush. A mudslide that swept her back to the bottom. ‘At least they don’t actually have Hermione.’ It was the only silver lining to this situation she could find— and Harri was quite certain that if the brown-haired girl was in the dungeons, she would have known about it by now. After all, Voldemort himself had assured her that no other captives were those she had a connection with, could be someone she might lay a claim to loving. Nonetheless, the fact they even had the girl’s wand was unsettling— because it meant that Hermione had been _there_. That she had been caught amidst the scramble, the chaos, the spellfire. That her blood had been spilled and she was that much closer to being in Ginny’s current shoes— all in the name of the ‘Order’ and of ‘liberating’ her friend from the Devil’s clutches. Understandably, such a thing made her want to retch.

“Put a stasis on the wand,” Voldemort instructed.

Harri blinked in alarm as it was lowered slowly back to the table, gaze lingering for a second before sliding to the Dark Lord’s profile. ‘Stasis?’ She frowned at that, brows drawing together as her mind tried to puzzle out as to why. And then she had arrived at the answer just as he had opened his mouth, stomach clenching in a violent way.

“Thankfully, the blood is still fresh enough to use for a trace. Leave it in my study after it’s done. I will personally see to it later,” he rose from the throne, a symphony of scraping chairs as others rushed to hurriedly bow— a scrambling display to show their reverence.

The girl remained seated, staring numbly in abject horror at the innocuous row of objects. Out of everyone present, Harri knew most intimately the power resting in even a single drop of blood. How just a tear, a bead, a drip could sow the most permanent, the most damning, of consequences— after all, it was her own, forcibly taken but still her own all the same, that had set into motion the reckoning of their world. It was the very reason why she was here— arranged in a lesser throne amongst venomous snakes and ensnared by a man with far too much power. ‘He’s going to find them.’ And suddenly, she found herself immensely grateful that she wasn’t standing at the present, knees going lax and legs turning boneless. It felt like this was game over. Checkmate. The grand finale, the impending denouement to all of her efforts— that everything she had done, lied and fought for, was rendered pointless.

A cough, the slightest clearing of a throat to her left— the objects were cleared away in a flurry of activity.

“Come,” the instruction was simple enough, Voldemort’s hand extended out for her to take.

Chilled fingers slipped into the cradle of an open palm and Harri allowed it to support most of her weight. Though once opposed to public displays of affection in front of the Death Eaters, she was unable to bring herself to fully care at the moment. Not when those fingers of his had flexed about her own— nor when he had pulled her so close that their shoulders ended up brushing as a result. Propriety and an aloof image could be damned, she figured— especially when there were more substantial things to currently worry about.

* * *

* * *

Harri was half-expecting to be dragged back to the study, to be reprimanded and scolded— and to be faced with the impossible question of why she had lied in front of him. Or, perhaps, be brought down to the dungeons to glean further information out of Ginny— to prise open her jaws until she consumed her body weight’s worth of veritaserum. He had done neither. 

Rather, the Dark Lord was guiding them elsewhere, their final destination eluding her comprehension. Frowning, a green gaze darted about as her bewilderment grew upon the realisation that she hadn’t ever ventured to this side of the manor before. Yet, he hadn’t given any indication of stopping, long strides steering them onwards. Past the long hall adorned with moving portraits, past the ostentatious indoor fountain, past the tall doors of a solarium and up a banistered flight of stairs— she blinked in a stupor when they arrived on the upper veranda. The manicured lawns rested in the backdrop— an endless sea of kempt green that eventually gave rise to a cluster of trees in the distance. And there, near the columns of stone that demarcated the railing, was a table. A tiered plate boasting an assortment of pastries and a set of fine china furnished the linen tablecloth.

“Tea? Really?” she asked flatly, already guessing that it meant one of two things— either he was looking to relax or the conversation was going to be grave. Harri assumed the latter.

His response came as a soft chuckle, already pulling out one of the carved chairs with a tilt of his head as a sign she should take it. The girl did so tentatively, dreading the impending discussion. What had he said once? Right— _“Harri, we are British. It’s in our very nature to have tea during difficult conversations.”_ She busied herself with eyeing the albino peacock strutting between the trimmed hedges, only distantly aware that he had taken up residency in the opposite seat— a thousand questions threatened to claw their way up her throat. Yet, despite that itching need to ask, the tongue remained uncooperative, deadened. And though the day was a fine one, temperate and spared the balmy heat that summer usually brought, the charm of it was entirely lost upon her.

A blur on her peripheral vision and emerald eyes slid back to him, tracking the movement as long fingers reached for the teapot’s handle. The fragrance of bergamot flooded the space between their bodies and Harri was unable to help herself from casually admiring Voldemort. There was an easy grace to the man, a fluidity in which he seemingly did everything— a charm that sometimes unnerved her with how inhuman it could be. An air of untouchable perfection that spoke of the dangers concealed under an aristocratic face— a charming predator whose nature to seduce was just as prevalent as the side that wished to kill. And, sometimes, Harri wondered how long it would be until everyone else saw it as well. Then again, perhaps they already had and were just content to go on believing in the beautiful nightmare— to continue to labour under the illusion he had crafted so well.

“Who’s Gregorovitch?” she asked, unable to contain the burning question any longer.

Voldemort had reached for the cream saucer, pouring a healthy dose into her cup before adding in a sugar cube. The twitches of a frown were unbidden. And it wasn’t for the fact that she disliked cream in her tea or sugar to lessen the astringency. Oh no, it was quite the opposite. In fact, that was the only way she could handle the bitterness he seemingly enjoyed. But it was more so that he had done it without prompting— that he had known her preferences and acted before she could do it herself. Fingers curled about the delicate handle, watching as the amber liquid became cloudy, diluted. A distant part of her conscious had suddenly become preoccupied with the awareness regarding the comfortable nature of their entire situation. When had they gotten like this? When had they gone from trying to kill each other, from being sworn enemies, to rather domestic in their interactions? It unnerved her when the dawning revelation came that she didn’t quite know— that it was impossible to pinpoint when, where, or how exactly that shift had occurred. The accompanying guilt was a confusing addition to the mix that writhed in her chest.

“It’s complicated, Harri,” he muttered, raising the gold painted rim to his lips and taking a slow sip.

“Try me,” the retort carried a bite that she hadn’t originally meant, pettish in its challenge.

The Dark Lord arched a brow in mild surprise, cup hovering mid-air as he considered her fouling mood. True, his horcrux had always been somewhat antagonistic, seeking to rile him up at her whim— but this felt different. In a way, it seemed more unprovoked than normal, her bleed-through in their link a touch on the combative side. Distant flashes of the outburst in the meeting room, the way those eyes of hers were alight in their rage— how they had glinted seeing Dolohov’s blood on the floor. ‘Different, indeed.’ The cup was slowly lowered down to the saucer, gaze critically passing over the girl across from him, searching, scanning for any outward sign that might betray what was amiss.

“He is a wandmaker,” he started slowly, crossing one long leg over another.

“One of a rather high caliber, I might add, who operated in mainland Europe. Whereas Ollivander supplied wands to those attending Hogwarts, Gregorovitch did the same for Beauxbatons and Durmstrang,” his fingers drummed against the table, “He was also the one to inform me of the elder wand’s location.”

He had placed a scone on her plate and Harri paused in picking at it, glancing up instead at the confession. Part of her always wondered where he had learned about the elder wand, having herself only stumbled across a mention of it during the futile hunt for information on horcruxes— and even then, she hadn’t put much stock into its existence. After all, the text had proclaimed it to be a legend, a fable, a passing note as a foretold way to attain immortality— _‘A Master of Death once all three hallows are united’_. It sounded far-fetched in her opinion. ‘Well, it obviously exists so I guess that’s just another thing he was right about,’ a sour thought supplied as she crumbled the pastry with misdirected enmity. 

“Tell me, Harri, how much are you aware of regarding the existence of a Dark Lord?”

Sweeping fingers brushed stray crumbs off the table and she actively ignored the flickering look of disdain pinching his expression. It was a puzzling question, one that had caught her off-guard by the seemingly abrupt change in direction. The topic of ‘Dark Lords’, naturally, wasn’t extensively covered at Hogwarts. And, from what she could recall, such discussion was mostly limited to history— a class that, the common consensus held, had always been a torture to endure. Though of course, her reasons for such were undoubtedly different than that of her peers. Sure, Binns liked to drone, his voice dull and the selected events dry at best. But her reservations mainly stemmed from the fact that history, particularly the modern periods, usually involved _herself_. And it was truly a jarring experience to open a textbook only to see her own name bolded, outlining her accomplishments and supposed hand in the ‘defeat’ of ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’. Even now, she could recall that first time Binns had realised _the_ ‘Harri Potter’ was seated in the 4th row— how a ghost had managed to look so lively still remained a mystery. Brows furrowed as she vainly tried to jog her memory.

“Not much, honestly,” Harri finally admitted, shrugging as she took a contemplative sip from her cup. “Apart from my own experience with you, that is.”

“Well, I suppose that’s not entirely surprising considering Dumbledore’s influence on the curriculum,” he had given a dissatisfied hum.

“The position of a Dark Lord is an _interesting_ one, to say the least. Simply put, it can not be obtained out of sheer desire alone. After all, if that was the only requirement, there are numerous dark-oriented wizards that could easily lay claim to the title. However, if that were to be the case, then surely there would be multiple Dark Lords roaming about. And yet, as far as we are aware, there haven’t been 2 existing at the same time. Why do you think that is?”

“Because you murder each other?”

“Funny, Harri. Very funny,” he sent her a scathing look and tried to gather the already fraying strands of his patience.

Harri allowed her attention to drift towards the lawn, squinting off into the distance at the blurred shapes of the treeline. How long would it take her to reach them? If she bolted right now with all her might, lept over this very banister and onto the ground below— how far would she make it until he caught up? _‘Not far.’_ There it was again— that little voice. Her constant companion, the other tenant taking root in her mind. _‘You know he would catch you before you could even scream. It’s futile so stop thinking about it.’_ She hated that it had a point. And try as she may to look beyond the thickened trunks and dense canopies, Harri was unable to even discern what might possibly be awaiting on the other side. An enchanted forest shrouding the castle, designed to safeguard and to prevent any from getting too close— or from potentially leaving. A resigned sigh, a heavy kind of sound, and green eyes tore themselves away to the manicured hedges instead. Of course, she was all too aware it would be pointless, that it wasn’t even worth seriously considering. And, for the most part, she usually didn’t dare to— it was just in those moments when freedom was presented ever so tantalisingly close, hovering on the boundaries of her awareness, that she found herself entertaining the ‘what-ifs’.

“The best way to think of it is more of an assigned role, one chosen by magic herself. In many ways, being a Dark Lord is as ingrained into my being as much as my parselmouth abilities. How magic decides a person is suitable to fulfill the position is unclear— only fools can claim to know otherwise. Of course, I do have my own speculations regarding the criteria but they can be saved for another time,” scarlet eyes misted over with a sheen of deliberation, “What is certain, however, is the _why_. If you recall from our lessons, magic has a will of its own— and it always seeks out balance. Wherever Light exists, so must Darkness. In the simplest of terms, a Dark Lord is created as an opposing force to keep the scales calibrated.”

“The main point to understand,” Voldemort leaned into the carved chair, clarity back in his gaze as it fixated upon the girl, “Is that it appears to be a cyclical pattern. When one Dark Lord falls, another rises. In essence, the cogs are being continuously replaced in order to keep the machine running.”

The peacock had given an obnoxious trill, a warbling and reedy melody as its fanned plumage was lifted into the air. A dazzling display of diamond pointed feathers, an arc of a colourless rainbow, a shock of white set against a verdant lushness. ‘If it’s a cyclical pattern based on the death of each Dark Lord—.’ Harri took a moment to process what he was implying, nearly choking on a half-formed breath when the revelation dawned upon her. An alarmed gaze snapped back to him, mouth gaping in a show of incredulity.

“But you’re immortal!”

“So I am,” he agreed lightly, a smirk that he tried to conceal behind the tea cup’s rim but failing miserably to do so.

“Unbelievable. You sly bastard,” Harri muttered in a mixture of wonder and horror, “You did that on purpose. Eliminating your competition through breaking the cycle, I mean. If it’s solely based on magic choosing someone to replace you when your time is up— Merlin.”

It would be an outright lie if Voldemort claimed that her marvel wasn’t doing awful things to his ego. While praise was something he was accustomed to, garnered daily from the sycophants that constantly buzzed about, it was oddly different coming from her. Though some might be inclined to label it as roundabout narcissism, considering the girl’s nature of creation, her words undeniably held more gravity, more weight. And as he took in the gleam in those wide eyes, the faintest flush on cream skin, the way she was leaning ever so slightly across the table— well, he would have given anything to make it last a touch longer.

“Of course, like I said, this is all mere speculation,” he refilled their emptied cups, “Only time will truly tell if my assumptions are correct. Though considering another Dark Lord wasn’t named even during the absence of my physical body, I do consider it to be a safe bet that it’s tied to my magic. If things go as planned, my throne and title should be secured for the eras to come.”

The novelty of the discovery was quickly evaporating and, in its stead, was the strangest urge to laugh. It bubbled up inside of her chest, a peril in how it threatened to spill forth from her lips. Some part of her had found the entire situation ridiculous— and it wasn’t because Voldemort had acted in such a paranoid manner. No, even she couldn’t deny the brilliance of the plan, the cunningness and thought put into protecting what was his. Rather, she wanted to laugh because of _herself_. While the man was already seeking to prepare his reign to last an eternity, devising ways to cheat magic of all things, she was here— still struggling to secure a way to protect her friends and fretting over a mere wand. It was times like these she was uneasily reminded of the differences in their abilities and aptitudes. Whereas he moved with concentrated purpose, always thinking on a broader scale and preparing for multiple scenarios, she had trouble considering anything beyond the present. An auburn crown fell into open hands, fingers massaging smarting temples. As much as she loathed to admit it, Voldemort was, in all regards, a virtuoso when it came to ruling. He was ambitious, a born strategist, possessed impeccable foresight— and yet, the Order was expecting her to take up the mantle for their war? ‘Truly laughable.’

Green eyes watched as lazy ripples spread concentrically across the amber surface in her cup. One. Two. Three. Each ring growing larger and larger until, at last, they hit the walls of the bone china— only to dissipate as though they were never even there to begin with.

“Hold on, isn’t Grindelwald still alive though?” she muttered, a headache on the rise as she tried to understand the nuances of how it all worked, “Shouldn’t he still be considered a Dark Lord? And, if that’s the case, how did you end up with the title?”

“Ah, I was wondering when you were going to bring that up,” Voldemort’s fingers interlaced together in his lap, the left leg crossing over the right, “You see, by the time I had reached my magical majority, Grindelwald was already defeated. Considering he was overpowered by Dumbledore and had his magic bound in the process, I am assuming that was enough to jumpstart the process in selecting another Lord.”

“But if having your magic bound is enough, isn’t there still a chance you could lose your title?”

“Oh Harri. I have no intention of that ever happening. And seeing as I now possess the legendary ‘wand of power’, it seems highly unlikely.” 

Her gaze lifted from the table and there it was— the underlying predator rising back to the surface and overshadowing the well-bred countenance he liked to portray. Its existence was there, as plain as day if one knew where to look. Camouflaged in that normally charming smile, each gleaming tooth as sharp as a razor. Hidden in those vivid eyes, a darkening promise streaking through them and casting shadows. But it was truly exposed by the subtle shifts in his aura, the unspoken danger that dripped from his long limbs, cloaking and swathing. It triggered an instinctual ‘fight or flight’ response. And the most startling thing was how she seemed to be getting more and more comfortable with this side of him— more adept at spotting those tells early on. The twitches of a frown in the corners of her mouth and Harri wearily rose from her seat, aimless feet carrying her to the veranda’s railing. Sometimes, it was easier to not look at him whenever he wore that particular expression— when he began to transcend the boundaries from ‘Tom’ and into ‘Lord Voldemort’. 

“What does this all have to do with Gregorovitch?” she finally asked the burning question, noting offhandedly that the sky was beginning to turn a dusty shade of pink.

Voldemort watched as the girl had moved towards the railing, ankles crossed and elbows resting upon the stone ledge as she leaned forward. It was hard to miss the flickers of her guarded expression, the way those painted lips had slid downwards— something was bothering his horcrux. And how it nettled him that he didn’t know _what_ exactly was wrong. Shifting in the chair, his head tilted to the left in thoughtful observation as he raked slowly, purposefully, across her profile. The setting sun caught her hair and lent the strands a radiance akin to smoldering embers. A pert nose was defined against the warm glow, the outline of a long neck and shapely jaw fit enough to appear on a cameo. And, for the first time all day, he finally took notice of what she was wearing— but surely he hadn’t picked out trousers that tight? Or had he? Truthfully, it was difficult to remember considering the amount of clothes that had been ordered— yet, he also couldn’t say that he entirely minded them. The material was tailored so tightly that it clung to the contours of her legs, the shape of her thighs and the slope of her calves. Fingers twitched at the memory of how silky the skin at her hip had been under his touch, how soft the beginning swell of her— ‘Focus.’ He cleared his throat, draining the dregs in his cup in an attempt to recollect himself.

“Though magic does give one the right conditions to become a Dark Lord, granting the power necessary, just that alone isn’t enough,” he explained, firmly fixing his attention on her face and refusing to give into the urge to let his eyes wander.

“Historically, wandmakers have been valuable assets in turning the tides of war. They can increase the power thresholds of wands, create new core combinations for specific magics, and generate a surplus that could outfit an army. As such, many Dark Lords in the past persuaded them to join their crusades,” he said.

“While some did remain neutral, others were infamous for championing their Lords. Why do you think, Harri, that the first thing I did as Sovereign was sign into effect a mandate limiting foreign wands within the Isles?” he pressed, picking at the nonexistent lint on his austere robes when she seemed to notice his staring.

“I figured Ollivander must have bribed you to keep his competition out,” Harri added on dryly, tapping the toe of her boot against the ground impatiently.

This whole roundabout conversation they were having was starting to grate on her nerves, an insatiable itching as the familiar swell of darkness made itself known. Restless, pacing, the unspoken urge to do _something—_ to move, to run, to fight. There was so much that needed to be done but, instead, her time was being eaten up. The slipping seconds, the dwindling minutes— all precious, all wasted. And the sky overhead, the slow transformation as it morphed into a shade of mauve, didn’t help to lessen that anxiety. His insistence on playing these little games was beyond vexing, her mind far too occupied with other matters to invest anything more than a half-baked interest. ‘The coin. The wand. Ginny. Hermione.’ The list was never-ending, looping continually in the foreground of her thoughts. And yet, instead of working towards gaining her friends’ freedoms and continued protections, she was stuck having tea with a Dark Lord who was insistent on skirting around the crux of the matter. 

“Can you get to the point already?” she snapped, reaching up to tighten her ponytail.

Crimson eyes narrowed marginally at the underlying impatience colouring her voice as he finally rose from his own seat. Elegant hands buried themselves into his pockets, studying the girl with an avid interest— ‘Something amiss, indeed.’ Measured steps carried him past the table, the heels of the Oxford shoes clicking against the stone tile.

“It was for control. Ollivander swore to remain neutral. Gregorovitch, on the other hand, is notorious for backing Grindelwald. By restricting foreign wands, I restrict the influence of foreign makers that haven’t pledged their allegiances to me. Therefore, I limit the chances of having a potential Dark Lord, or their supporters, encroach upon my territory and challenge my title. It was done to protect my claim on the Isles should the original plan of halting the cycle fail,” he explained.

A sparrow flitted overhead, looping in its flight with a dulcet chirp. The bird had landed for a second of respite on the ledge, the thin curve of its talons a rhythmic tap as it busied itself with preening. Two pairs of eyes were riveted by its unexpected entrance, observing with keen scrutiny for the sake of filling the lull in conversation. Neither spoke. A stretch of silence. And then there was movement from behind her, a red-eyed man slowly approaching that ended up startling the creature. Harri watched sullenly as it took to the skies in a flurry, a bitterness that she, too, wished to join in on its flight.

“Why is that an issue _now_ though? Aren’t you the only Dark Lord out there?” she muttered, tracking as the small brown bird had faded into the distance.

“That’s true to some extent. Grindelwald, however, is still alive. Kept under lock and key in Nurmengard— the very same tower he had built to hold his own prisoners of war. And while his magic is bound, that apparently isn’t enough to denounce him in the eyes of his followers. Did you know that there are still zealous factions loyal to him in Europe? That, at this very moment, there are people seeking to liberate him from his chains? Gregorovitch was one of them.”

There was an unexpected heat at her back, the press of something solid as it formed itself to her— Harri blinked dazedly, trying to pinpoint when he had gotten so close. The lines of his body were taut, the steady rise and fall of his chest a jarring sensation against her shoulder blades. Yet, she didn’t quite dare to step away, rooted to the spot and refusing to be intimidated. And the warmth seeping from him was, admittedly, pleasant enough, working to stave off the creeping chill brought on by the setting sun. 

“We paid him to go into retirement, to denounce his ties to Grindelwald’s campaigns and to prevent him from supporting another faction’s uprising in Europe,” his tone was soft, casual almost in nature— entirely unbefitting for the topic of conversation.

It was hard to completely ignore when large hands had snaked their way onto the ledge, idly coming to rest mere inches from her own. Curling into the stone to support his weight, Harri found herself morbidly fascinated by them. A passing, involuntary appraisal that they were, by all rights, strangely attractive. Shapely fingers gripped the stone with a surprising strength, the knuckles bleeding out white— the outline of fine bones brought closer to the surface, a subtle movement as they shifted under the skin. And there was the vaguest notion, as green eyes darted from one to the other, that he was attempting to cage her in. That his towering form and flexing grip were meant to serve as her prison.

“But why does it matter what happens in mainland Europe? The wizarding Isles have been independent from them for ages,” she asked, refusing to look away from those hands and not quite trusting their sudden appearance.

“Oh, Harri, sometimes your naivety is just downright _sinful_ ,” a breathy laugh as he leaned in closer.

“Did you not consider it odd that I was elected so quickly as Sovereign? That I managed to dismantle the Ministry so swiftly? So easily?” he whispered, lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

“Think about it. How would I, _Marvolo Gaunt_ , a political newcomer that had seemingly appeared out of thin air, gain enough confidence votes to overturn the Wizengamot?” he asked innocently, a surge of smug triumph when her pulse had quickened.

His mouth pressed against the tender spot where the jaw and ear connected, “Yes, my Death Eaters are influential and most have the backing of the Sacred 28. But still, that wouldn’t be enough, now would it?”

Harri tried to pay attention. Truly, she did. But it was proving to be a difficult task, nearly insurmountable, when he was all but draping himself over her. That once pleasant warmth was sharpening into something stifling, suffocating— a heat entirely welcomed. The lips grazing across her skin and soft whispers stole away the capacity for coherency— a settling fog that served to obscure. And the fear that someone might stumble upon them was the last thing she could bring herself to worry about. Somehow, his coaxing had lessened the bite of her earlier agitation, a soothing balm that tempered the darkness that she didn’t quite understand. The girl readily leaned into it, thankful that, for once, there was a sense of quiet at her center.

And then it all came crashing down when his implications finally registered through the haze. Her stomach lurched uneasily, not quite wanting to believe that he had done something so foolish, so potentially damaging— a heavy swallow, a knot of nerves tightening in her chest, a spasm in her ribcage.

“You didn’t,” she breathed out, “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did,” he admitted easily, face buried into her neck and mouthing the words against the hollow of her collarbone, “You see, I needed to find a way around Dumbledore’s influence, a method to nullify it. And even he couldn’t fight against the full weight of the European institutions. After all, while we may be independent, so many things we take for granted rely on a congenial relationship. Trade, border security, peace— all so easily rescinded without warning.”

“Do they know then?” she wrenched her head away, spinning around in his grasp, “Who you truly are?”

Scarlet eyes widened a fraction in surprise at the unanticipated refusal, the way she appeared to be genuinely horrified with what he had done— and then it suddenly struck him that she hadn’t even _considered_ the notion of foul play. That, in her mind, there wasn’t even the possibility for outside interference— or that his entire ascension to power had merely been the result of a rigged system. And, truly, how _endearing_ that innocence of hers was. A growing smirk, the left corner lifting higher than the right, and he loomed over the girl trapped against the railing.

“Of course they do. I met with their councils and presented them with an ultimatum. They could assist me in taking the throne peacefully, without bloodshed and on a platform of goodwill. Or they could stand by as I tear apart the Isles in my claim. Observe from afar while the nation descends into anarchy and war before I begin to make a move on their own countries in retaliation. After all, Lord Voldemort never forgets.”

“I was rather convincing, as you might imagine. Apparently, a Dark Lord defying death and coming back after a supposed ‘defeat’ certainly lent gravity to my threats,” he chuckled, reaching over to twist a strand of auburn around his index finger, “Of course, I am a merciful ruler. In exchange, I offered up my services regarding Grindelwald’s remaining factions. They give me a crown, and I keep my reign restricted to the Isles while helping to suppress those pesky uprisings in Europe.”

“Naturally, they accepted,” he stated wryly, releasing the coil of hair and studying her waned expression, “In their minds, I imagine the justification was that it’s better to deal with a Dark Lord you know, and who is open to negotiations if need be, rather than one that has been spurned. I do have to give credit to them, however, for being smart enough to recognise the inevitability of my rule.” 

“‘Uprisings’,” she echoed, brows knitting together as another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

“The centaur ‘uprisings’ you always talk about in the North,” emerald eyes narrowed as her tone took on an accusing note, “It’s code, isn’t it?”

“Well, look who has been paying attention— such a _clever_ girl. Yes. We have been keeping an eye on the mainland’s activity for some time now, stepping in whenever needed.”

“And yet,” his voice had dropped abruptly, a coldness lacing the words as his left hand tightened about the stone railing, “All of my efforts, all of my planning is currently being jeopardised by your precious little Order.”

“Oh no, you can’t blame them for that,” she snapped back in defense, bristling at his accusations, “They couldn’t have known. Hell, even _I_ didn’t know— and I _live_ with you.

“Are you sure about that? After all, they are allying themselves with Gregorovitch who, need I remind you, is a loyalist to Grindelwald. If they are bringing him into the mix, Harri—,” Voldemort warned softly, the threat hanging heavily. 

There was the crackle of static between them, sharp pops as it ate away at the oxygen— a corroding force as magic leaked outwards, spilling forth and tumbling from its reservoir. And as much as Harri would have loved to continue to retaliate, to rise to the bait and fight him on this, she had enough self-awareness to realise that now wasn’t the ideal time. Judging by his clenched jaw, the molten heat blazing in those hellfire eyes, the hair raising on her arms, he was beyond the usual amount of upset— he was livid. She didn’t even need to rely on the bond to tell her that much, the trembling stone beneath their feet an indication of his feeling’s extent. In the background, the windows rattled precariously in their panes, a symphony approaching its crescendo. ‘Setting him off won’t help anyone’s case,’ rationality reasoned, attention flitting cautiously over the face hovering so close to her own. It wasn’t exactly impossible, either, to hazard a guess as to why the man was this upset— if the Order was truly attempting to involve Grindelwald in this fight, it would mark their transgressions as being more than personal in nature. That Voldemort would see it as them not merely rebelling, acting out of concern for her, but trying to usurp his title— his position as Dark Lord that he had been making every effort to safeguard. And how she desperately prayed that wasn’t the case— because if it was, then she was more than certain it would be beyond her control to save them. Promises be damned. 

A difficult swallow, a lump that refused to budge, and the girl strived to gather the frayed threads of that earlier calm. Her hand rose to splay across his heart, a bid to calm him, to show that she could understand his frustrations. Harri darted forward, a featherlight brush of her lips to the center of his sternum— another placed on his pulsepoint, at the curve of his jaw. She pulled away just as quickly before he could react, a silent plea to not react rashly. 

Voldemort stiffened, taken off guard by the unexpected displays of affection— tension crept along his spine, a calculating glint as he considered the girl before him. It was always a war in his mind, two factions suspended in a battle— a story as old as the conflicts foretold in the epics. Was she meaning to be genuine? Or was this an act, a ruse? Could she possibly be true or was she attempting to deceive? A side to him, the cynical one healthily nursed through the ages, sought to determine the latter— though there was still that shred of hope, the light never fully quelled, that ached for the former. ‘Don’t be a fool.’ The quaking ground stilled, quiet settling as a tensed, weighty thing. 

He glanced down at the hand on his chest, a detached thought wondering if it had always been that small? That fragile? And yet, there was so much power resting in it, the coursing current of might and magic held in each dip and crevice. After all, he had personally seen the chaos, the destruction it had been able to reap— and how much more would such a hand be capable of once she attained her true potential? He tried to suppress the shiver, the spreading thrill as crimson eyes drifted back to her face. There was a determination shining in those curse green eyes, an unwavering steadfast sort— it was easy to see why so many were loyal to her, why there were those willing to even die with her name on their lips.

“ _They are not_. I’ll speak to Ginny and find out for certain but I can assure you that they would _never_ dare,” she tried to reassure, attempting to exude a confidence that she didn’t quite feel.

“You can later,” the words were resolute, a firm command that was hard to argue against when he unfurled to reach his full height.

“But, I--.”

“Later, Harri. For now, I want to talk about _you_.”

An arm had shot out to snake about her waist, a brusque motion that caught her off guard when she was yanked even closer to him. The hand on his chest twitched, its companion rising to push half-heartedly in a bid to earn some distance. Protests were already forming on her tongue at his rashness, at the unexplained switch in priorities— it was important they find out _now_ for both of their sake’s. There wasn’t any time left to talk about her, the window of opportunity shortening the longer they stalled. And truthfully, whatever the particulars that conversation would entail weren’t ones she could even feign an excitement for, a tide of exasperated dread mounting. Plus, there was still the important matter of figuring out what to do about the wand, the coin— how to conceal Hermione’s tracks from the trace. 

Squirming in the constraining grasp, the warning she had received was his forearm tensing, slotting her body against his with a bruising strength— _‘Later.’_ And as she spared a glimpse up at his carefully blank mask, her heart suddenly plummeted, a sheen of cold sweat appearing on the back of her neck. ‘He knows I lied.’ A pit formed in her stomach, an encompassing wave of nausea— the last thing the girl saw was the encroaching violet of dusk, the northern star already visible against the waxing moon.


	56. The Blood of a Thestral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! As promised, here's a bit of a spicy chapter for you guys 💕 
> 
> Also, as a heads up, I'm doing some lore building on Occlumens as well this in this section that isn't canon + some parselmouth information.
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who is still reading along and showing this fic love! 💕 I so appreciate it and I adore every single one of you guys as my readers. You make me feel so blessed and massive shout out to those who hold conversations with me in the comments-- they truly do make my day 💕
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy! 💕

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They were pulled through the vacuum of space, their molecules, their very essences intertwining— mingling and morphing until all that remained was a singular entity. A reunion of a split soul, a merging that had lasted for only a few moments. A sense of wholeness. Completion. 

And then they landed back into the mortal plane, wrenched apart and divvied up as the familiar surroundings of the study materialised. Sometime during their absence, the candles on the walls had been lit and the fire, now far from anemic, restoked. The flames danced in the mantle, the warmth of its glow warding off the infringing darkness the evening brought— the prolonged quiet continued as the pair stood there. One was held tightly in the embrace of the other, a reluctance to move away.

Voldemort eyed the girl in his arms, a twinge of concern at how she appeared to be more affected by the apparition than usual. Her eyes were screwed shut, the rise and fall of slight shoulders offset by an uneven rhythm— laboured breathing, quick inhalations through her nose as shaking fingers curled into the front of his robes. And how such a display only fed his curiosity, driving him onwards with that unabating need to figure out what was happening to her. A frown twitched in the corners of his mouth when she had finally stumbled out of reach, unsteady feet crossing to the lounge and sinking down onto it. The beginnings of protest were bubbling up from his chest, a sense of ever-growing unease when an auburn crown fell into open palms. He swallowed it down the best he knew how. Logic dictated that reprimands were the last thing she needed at the current moment or something she could even handle. No, those could be reserved for later.

Instead, long strides carried him to the bar cart to pour the carafe of mineral water into a glass— wordlessly, he placed it on the chaise’s side table. There was an unspoken command behind the simple action: _‘Drink’_. However, the girl had made no move to do so, head still willfully buried and fingers entangled in her hair. A passing glance, cutting and critical, raked over her bowed form, debating if he should say or do something. One beat passed and then another before an indecisive mind finally settled on an answer.

He retreated to the desk, allowing his horcrux some time alone to compose herself— in all retrospect, he considered that much was at least owed to her before the questions could start. It was a mayhem of parchment on the polished oak surface. Hands, far too idle and itching to be occupied, reached for the stack of letters that were perched precariously on the edge. That was the downside to being an openly public figure, the burden that came along with holding the crown— and one that his reception of could be described, at best, as being tepid. Letters, endless correspondences, official documents outlining treaties and personal invites constantly found a permanent home in the study. And there were days when he found himself consumed with an internal debate if going the political route had been wise. After all, it wasn’t as though he had to deal with upcoming conferences or interviews when he was simply and wholly ‘Lord Voldemort’. ‘The price for absolute control,’ an inner thought supplied dryly, carding through the documents with languid speed. The passing minutes found themselves settling into a repetitive routine— scanning the return addresses, flipping over the crisp envelopes, noting the wax seals before tossing them into a different stack impatiently.

Thump. Thump. _Thumpthumptump_. The noise had given him pause, crimson eyes lifting in curiosity at the disruption to the quiet. In the background, the redhead was still slumped over but the left leg had begun to bounce restlessly against the carpet— an indication that the lingering effects were, apparently, starting to lessen. ‘Give her a few minutes longer.’ Voldemort threw the final letter down, scanning the desk for— ‘Ah, there it is.’ Placed amongst the ledgers and scrolls was the bloodied wand, a slanted note attached that assured a stasis had been successfully put into place. With a nonchalant hum, fingers curled about the leather-wrapped handle. Fixing the girl with a sidelong glance, the Dark Lord rounded the desk and came to pause at a series of locked drawers built into its side. Pushing his magic outwards, the topmost had sprung open with ease— depositing the aspen, it slid closed of its own accord, the soft click causing Harri to finally raise her head.

“What do you want?” she muttered, reaching for the glass and taking an unenthusiastic sip. 

“What do I want? Well, I want a lot of things,” his response was slow, purposeful, “But what I _want_ at this very moment is to talk about _you_.”

Voldemort moved out from behind the desk to lean against its front instead. Ankles casually crossing, darkening eyes roamed over her face and noting the way it was still pinched with the persisting tells of discomfort. This was the problem in having a human as a horcrux vessel, he figured— she was more susceptible to damage. To _breaking_. His attention drifted down to the half-empty tumbler held between shaking fingers, a tilt of his chin as an indication for her to keep drinking. There was a sense of sneaking satisfaction when she had obediently drained the glass to follow his command— it was almost enough to make him forget her transgressions. _Almost_.

“Tell me, how have you been feeling?” he asked.

A muscle jumped above her brow in a betrayal of her annoyance, eyes narrowing with barely-concealed disbelief. The man had just apparated her without warning after dropping the lovely bomb that he had rigged their entire political system— and with the help, no less, from the very same alliance the Isles had worked decades in trying to separate from. Then he had deemed it necessary to let her in on the hidden secrets behind a Dark Lord’s existence— all while deciding, at the same time, it was entirely appropriate to get rather handsy. And, to top it off, he was keeping one friend hostage while planning to use the other’s blood for a trace. Yet he had the gall to ask her how she was _feeling_? Rather than working to secure their protections, she was here— forced to undergo a pseudo-therapy session with a man who sorely needed one himself. Suddenly, Harri found herself rather glad that she had had the foresight to set the glass down before he could speak— the temptation to throw it was stronger than she would care to admit. Thin fingers pinched the bridge of her nose, a striving endeavour to stave off the urge to explode.

“Oh yeah— love being apparated and being told all of your deepest, darkest little secrets. I’m doing completely wonderful,” she sniped back, tone dripping with sarcasm, “Everything’s just bloody sunshine and rainbows.” 

“Harri,” the warning was soft though its weight was felt all the same.

He shrugged off the black outer robes, letting the material fall gracefully from his frame. Before they could even pool on the ground, however, an invisible force had lifted them up into the air. The garment found purchase on the three-pronged coat rack and a whisper of settling fabric followed as magic smoothed out the wrinkles. One glance at her thunderous expression and it was apparent where the nature of this conversation was heading— he was far too intimate with that look of hers, after all, to know she meant to be anything other than purposefully belligerent. A deep inhale to resist the urge to already snap, the Dark Lord busied himself with undoing the monogrammed cufflinks instead— the starched material of the collared shirt was pushed up to reveal the expanse of his forearms. There was a tic in the corded muscle as the left hand gripped the desk’s edge— two purposeful taps in quick succession as the index finger drummed against the wood.

“Do not try to play me for a fool,” he levelled a burning gaze on her.

“You have been rather deceitful as of late, haven’t you?” he questioned coolly, the right hand reaching up to loosen the charcoal tie about his throat, “And no, I’m not just referring to that little stunt you pulled in the meeting regarding the coins.”

“How did you—?”

“Know that you weren’t being fully honest?” he finished for her, scoffing at her blatant surprise, “You seem to keep forgetting that I can literally sense it.”

“When you lie, did you know that your arousal heightens? That your pulse begins to quicken and your body heat increases? So many little physical tells,” he pointed out offhandedly, smirking as he slipped into parseltongue to further prove his point, _“And you, pet, are the worst possible liar out there. I could practically taste your guilt the entire time.”_

His tongue ran across the roof of his mouth in deliberation at her tense posture, “But you weren’t fully lying back there either. There was some truth to your statement so I am willing to forgive you on that front. No, what I am referring to is your constant, ongoing deceit over these past few weeks.” 

Harri frowned at what he was implying, brows drawing together as her mind turned over to figure it out. And silently, she cursed herself for the ignorance, for the stupidity in not realising that he would be able to sense the physical signs that went along with deception. How badly she wished to slap herself, to scream and to demand to know why she kept so conveniently forgetting that he wasn’t an ordinary man at the worst of times. ‘Well, at least he isn’t pressing the matter.’ That was the silver lining to the situation, the one small blessing. But such relief was offset by the fact that she had, apparently, done something even worse to offend— and, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what. Toes curled and uncurled in her boots, a leg bouncing aimlessly— reflexive measures to jog her memory but failing miserably to do so. 

“The uptick in aggressive behaviour, the constant headaches, the increasing exhaustion. Not to mention the frequent nosebleeds,” he listed them off, patience slipping at her feigned innocence.

‘Oh,’ it was her only thought and she took note of his growing frustration that had begun to colour the edges of their bond.

“Did you not think that Narcissa wouldn’t come to me when you kept having them during your lessons? That she wouldn’t be a sensible adult and alert me the minute that something was wrong?” he pressed, lip curling at her unfathomable stubbornness.

“Thankfully, she at least possesses a shred of self-preservation and the common sense to realise what is happening to you is not normal,” his grip tightened on the desk, “Did you honestly not consider, even for the briefest of a second, that you should tell me? That you should at least allow me that one courtesy?”

Harri remained steadfast in her silence, bristling under the heat in his gaze and the tendrils of his magic that were being purposefully let out. Her jaw clenched and she rolled her shoulders in a bid to rid them of their tension. It was a game, she had come to realise, that he liked to play whenever she toed the boundaries of his patience— an incessant need of his to make her bow, to submit. And how it always left a rather sharp taste in her mouth, tart enough to sour everything else in turn— her words, her mood, her magic, her dreams. ‘Courtesy, huh?’ It was a laughable concept and she actively had to force down the embittered laugh. He was trying to dress it up with pretty words and a sense of pleasantry, a choice on her end and under the guise of a congenial relationship. But it was hard to fully ignore the true message— ‘You’re my horcrux so I deserve to know everything that’s happening to my soul’s vessel.’ Apparently, she wasn’t even allowed the decency or privacy to deal with the happenings of her own body without having to let him know. Fingers spasmed at the buzz in the back of her mind, the awareness of him heightening— some distant part practically purring at the fact, a longing she hated to feel. _‘He’s just worried, don’t fault him for it,_ ’ that little voice whispered in his defense. ‘Stop it.’ Emerald eyes anchored resolutely on the fire, refusing to yield nor to look over at him.

“I am _concerned_ , Harri. I thought we were finally moving past this constant hiding,” he tried to reason, despising the fact that she wasn’t looking at him, “Help me understand. Why did you keep it from me?”

There was a sense of smugness, a victorious murmur— _‘I told you so.’_ She was starting to despise its ongoing commentary more and more as of late. 

The emphasis he had placed on ‘concerned’ was a despicable pull on her nerves. It was a poisonous word, one that polluted her blood and writhed about her heart. Teeth worried the velvet softness of her cheek, gnawing until copper coated and overwhelmed. The answer, truthfully, was one she had already known for quite some time— and how she _hated_ herself for it. It was a habit formed in the impressionable ages of her youth and one that refused to abate even as the years stretched on. Harri hated worrying others. Plain and simple. It was to the extent that she even went out of her way to keep things that were wrong out of sight— to fix them on her own without anyone being the wiser. Hermione had determined it to be one of her crippling faults, a coping mechanism leftover from a childhood saddled with the weight of adult responsibility. And yet, no matter how many reassurances she was given that it was perfectly fine to tell others when something was happening, or whenever she felt overwhelmed, Harri could never bring herself to do so. An irrational fear, a nagging feeling that prevented her from even opening her mouth— _‘_ What if I’m being a burden?’ It was such a simple line of thought that held a terrifying degree of power— a ceaseless whisper that stole her voice, suffocated and drowned it in her lungs. However, there was an added aspect that Hermione hadn’t factored in, one that went beyond the tender mercies of the Dursleys and, rather, stemmed from the wizarding world. With so many people dependent on her, how could she possibly reveal that she was just like them? As fragile, as vulnerable, as _weak_? What would they think if they saw their hero as flawed as they were? Or, perhaps, even more so?

Yet, the self-hatred didn’t come from her ingrained aptitude for concealing, hiding, and pretending. Rather, it was _because_ she was falling into that familiar routine once again. That, against all odds, he was beginning to _mean_ something to her. That her brain was irrationally classifying the man as something other than ‘captor’ or ‘Dark Lord’ and felt the need to preserve her image as being capable or strong in his eyes. And how much easier would it be if she could believe her own claims about hating him, about seeing him as an overbearing villain.

“I didn’t think it mattered. And I didn’t want to bother you,” she muttered, loathing that it was the undeniable truth, “None of it seemed like a big deal at the time.”

He paused at that, irritation tempered by the resulting bewilderment. Arms crossed over his chest as he watched her turned profile with shrewd interest, the conflict from her a cacophony of white noise in his consciousness. And not for the first time was Voldemort left speechless by the girl and the brightness of her emotions, the extent to which she could feel so many things at once.

“Harri, did I not promise that I would protect you? Claim you were mine and vow to never let anything harm you?” he questioned softly, angling to make her see reason, “Your health matters to me. And I can not fulfill my end of that promise unless I am made aware of everything that is wrong.”

She flinched at that, arms wrapping about her middle in an effort to provide comfort as she vacantly stared into the flames. It was wrong— all of this. Dumbledore would be turning in his grave if he knew and, heaven forbid, if Sirius, Hermione, any of them ever found out. And yet, those little moments whenever he proved to not just be a murderer, a Devil, were the most damning, the most twisting. They threw her convictions out the window, her hate, her anger, crumbled it all into fine dust beneath her feet. Whenever he spoke so softly, spun such lovely sentiments, and let honey fall from his lips, it was always enough to disarm her— to push back the memories of a wraith in a graveyard, to not dwell on the monster hidden under a turban, or the cold glint in dark eyes when he commanded a basilisk to hunt her down. Unbidden, Nagini’s words suddenly came back to her, a tide of a shiver— _“You are his and he is yours.”_ And how irrefutably true that assessment was.

“Have you at least been taking your elixirs?”

“No,” she responded bluntly, watching as a log cracked in half and sent a spray of embers against the metal grate.

He had to resist the urge to rake his fingers through his hair in frustration, despising the fact that she still wasn’t looking at him, “We are attempting to reverse a decade and a half of malnutrition, incorrectly healed injuries, and Merlin only knows what else—.”

“I _know_ that,” she interjected.

“Then why, for the love of all things—,” he grit out, unable to fully understand her logic.

“They taste terrible,” was her protest, fingers smoothing over the velvet fabric of the lounge distractedly, “And I figured I don’t really need them anymore. Frankly, I’m feeling fine enough as it is and don’t see the point.”

And there it was, her insistence on ruining the moment with a baffling impulsive and mulish attitude. Long strides carried him back to the bar cart in search of a distraction— it came in the form of a healthy dose of brandy sloshing into a crystal tumbler. The sound filled the room, pervading the quiet as the cracks from the fire supplied the refrain. ‘Patience,’ a voice warned as he knocked back the amber liquid without reservation. The burn slipping down helped to temper the swelling agitation, the warmth settling heavily in his chest a pleasant enough feeling. A sharp inhalation held for a beat, a slow exhale. True, she had most likely received that stubbornness from himself, the strength of will a quality he could reluctantly admire. Yet, he was also more than certain hers was an entirely different breed, a new strain that deviated from its original source— after all, he, at least, knew when to throw in the towel and act out of self-preservation. And Voldemort did wonder if the girl was secretly nursing a death wish— if she was actively courting it or was caught in a proverbial game of ‘chicken’ to see which would bow first. It would explain some of her questionable behaviours, that heedlessness in which she always charged into any situation, the consequences be damned. ‘Of all the stupid things she could possibly do.’

Scarlet eyes lifted from the decanter to bore holes into the flickering flames, not quite trusting himself to face her just yet. ‘Moronic. Imbecilic. Reckless. Irresponsible,’ the list went on, blunt nails tapping against the glass surface. It was a piercing sound that rose above all others, a testament to his fouling mood— the shadows on the peripheral edges of the room shuddered. He poured himself another helping and raised the rim to his lips, tilting it back steadily, purposefully.

“How many dosages have you skipped?” the question was whispered, a flatness in its inflections.

“A few,” she stated tentatively, gaze finally drifting over to him and studying the broadness of his back.

Harri winced at the tension visibly entering the lines of his shoulders, “Maybe two?”

He scoffed humourlessly at her response, draining the dregs from his glass before sparing a glance over his shoulder, “Did we not just talk about how I can tell whenever you lie, Harri? Because let me assure you, you are _dreadful_ at concealing it.”

A snap of his fingers and a house-elf had suddenly appeared before him, its knobby knees sunk down to the ground in a show of subservience. Little mind was paid to its grovelling or the assurances that it only lived to serve. Rather, he focused on replacing the stopper in the decanter and reorganizing the crystalware on the cart— anything to allow him to gather the frayed cords of his patience.

“Bring me Miss Potter’s medicine chest,” the instruction was simple and curt.

It is a terrible thing to know the exact moment when one is caught in a lie— when the truth is looming and there’s nothing one can do to prevent the web from unspinning. And as the sight of a brown leather case had appeared on the side table, Harri was witnessing just that— everything unravelling. The grip of numbing dread had made itself known as it seized her heart, a squeeze that caused the muscle to skip a beat. Even though the room was, by all means, comfortably warm, the heat had done little to prevent the chilled skin from prickling. A nervous gaze flitted between his turned back and the box containing the viles, an idea forming that, perhaps, she should just grab it and run. Of course, it had been far more than merely two missed— some part of her had just hoped he would take the number at face value and not call the bluff. Would act out of mercy and let it slide just as he had done with the coins. ‘Foolish girl.’ Snape’s words floated to the forefront of her thoughts and it was difficult to argue against that particular assessment.

The Dark Lord had set the glass down with a jarring clink, slowly turning on his heels in the process. Her stomach churned as his steps were leisurely, unhurried— no doubt purposefully dragging out the suspense. And how mesmerising the pattern of the rug beneath her feet was, attention consumed by it and mind turning over with how many paces, exactly, it was to the door.

The turning of a lock, the creak of the leather straps being stretched as the case was opened— the girl shifted on the couch, grimacing at the tensed silence that followed.

“Would you like to revise your statement?”

‘Shit,’ was her only coherent thought, peeking up cautiously from fanned lashes to take in the stormy countenance of his expression. Thankfully, those narrowed eyes of his were transfixed in counting the vials— but even turned from her, Harri could see the emotions, the anger that made them _burn_.

“Eight, Harri. Eight dosages you have missed,” his voice had turned hard and clipped with displeasure, “Nearly four weeks’ worth.”

“I really don’t need them—,” she tried to argue, mouth closing with an audible click when he had turned towards her.

“We _talked_ about this,” the words were borderline on hissing, exasperation lacing each syllable, “Your current body is physically unable to handle the change required to achieve your full potential. It’s a miracle you have lasted this long as it is. And considering the instabilities regarding your behaviour as of late, I would wager your time is running out.”

“Or do you _want_ to spend the next decade, or perhaps even longer, in a magic-induced coma because it was unable to handle the shift?” he accused, searching vainly for any comprehension on her end.

Without waiting for her answer, Voldemort reached for a glass vial and pried it from the indented casing that cushioned it from all sides— a precious resource that required the utmost protection. They hadn’t been easy, nor inexpensive, to obtain seeing as the main ingredient was the blood of a thestral— a creature that was, technically, illegal to harvest from. But the healing properties were rumoured to be exceptional and even Severus had acknowledged that it would cut the absorption time of normal nutrition elixirs in half— and time wasn’t, unfortunately, on their side in this scenario. Truthfully, he had already foreseen a negative outcome from her examination, having found the girl to be a touch too slight, too delicate and frail even during their very first encounter. Though, despite having that expectation in mind, it still came as a shock to learn the extent of her body’s deterioration— far too many years of being underfed and of sustaining improperly healed injuries were finally taking a damning toll. A ticking bomb had been the verdict, her core and parselmouth abilities growing at an alarming rate that would soon surpass the body’s physical capacity. What should have been a logistic curve, plateauing out eventually and stabilising, was rapidly morphing into an exponential one without any carrying limitations. And how it burned him to know that no one saw fit to try to reverse the damages sooner, to become aware of her condition at the earlier stages when it would count.

The tar coloured liquid had rippled when it was disturbed from its resting place, a viscous consistency that clung as a film to the vial’s walls. Truly, he couldn’t fault the girl for not being thrilled about taking it— and he might have had some sympathy if she hadn’t been so inane in her protests or if they weren’t absolutely essential. Long fingers curled about the thin neck of the bottle and he moved towards the lounge— one knee sunk down onto the plush fabric while the other remained firmly on the ground. Even half-sitting, his height towered over the girl. And though he was aware that it was partially due to her malnourishment, it would have been a lie to say that he didn’t at least somewhat enjoy the differences in their stature— the thrill it was to overshadow and dominate. That wide-eyed astonishment whenever she became actively conscious of the fact didn’t quite help, either, to temper that satisfaction.

“Open,” he commanded.

Owlish eyes blinked up at him when he had leaned in closer without warning, one of his hands gripping the chaise’s frame near her head. Admittedly, it was a rather intimidating stance— although, referring to it as solely ‘intimidating’ wasn’t exactly truthful either. Then understanding dawned when she pieced together what he was planning, brows lifting in mild surprise. Lips pursed closed, an unyielding seal as green eyes narrowed in a silent challenge. And sure, Harri did consider she was being a touch pettish in the blatant refusal— but she would be damned if she was going to be forced fed by _Lord Voldemort_ , of all people. It was an undignified notion and far too infantilizing in her opinion— even Madam Pomfrey had the tact to let her patients take their own medications while under her watchful care. Plus, knowing the sadist he was, she just knew that he was going to enjoy the humiliation to a personal degree. 

The man moved closer, frustration evident in the tensing of his jaw when she hadn’t outright acquiesced— she pressed her back into the lounge, pointlessly trying to buy some more space between them.

“Open, Harri,” he repeated, scowling when she refused to budge.

A soft growl, tongue dragging over his canines in contemplation when it became evident that the girl wasn’t going to listen. ‘Fine then. Have it your way,’ a dark passing thought, grip releasing from the couch to settle upon the nape of her neck. She stiffened under the unanticipated touch, the slightest squeeze of his fingers an effective enough warning. The flicker of alarm in those green depths told him she was expecting some form of pain to follow— a smirk slid the corners of his mouth upwards as he searched for their bond. And there it was, just waiting to be exploited. It had been some time since he felt the need to use it against her and the fact that he was having issues in ignoring it was a testament to how long it had been. That all-encompassing warmth, that liquid sweetness and devastating buoyancy— had it always been this intense? This feverish? It was hard to say. Suppressing the urge to shudder, Voldemort blindly searched his mindscape for the tendrils of shadow, for the safety it would provide. As effective as tapping into the horcrux connection may be, it was a double-edged sword, a necessary evil that was all too quick to turn on its master. 

The slightest shake of his head to clear away the haze, a pull in his core to hide behind the occlumency shields— that glow battered against the translucent barriers, a monster thrashing and insistent on swallowing him whole. His breathing was shallow when he had finally reentered the mortal world, content enough that the fortifications should be enough to ward off the allure--- a semblance of control had been won, though not without cost. It felt as though electricity had been poured into his veins, an exposed wire that was seeking to wreak havoc upon its environment. ‘Definitely different than before,’ he had determined and wary of the implications. 

Scarlet eyes drifted down to the girl caged under him, noting that she wasn’t faring any better than he had. She was practically melted into the lounge, auburn crown tilted back, and gaze blown wide. That verdant green had been eclipsed, pupils dilated in a betrayal of her struggles--- they suddenly slipped closed, the column of her throat bobbing in a tell of a difficult swallow. Distantly, he was aware of his mission, the cooling weight of vial between locked fingers. ‘Get her to drink it,’ the inner-dialogue was fuzzy, muddled. It was hard to focus, especially when her mouth had slightly parted. The bottle slipped to the couch, bouncing harmlessly against the cushions as his hand rose to cup her jaw— the pad of the thumb dragged across the full bottom lip. Petal soft to the touch, the wine-hued lipstick smeared under his administrations. A streak of red. ‘Beautiful’. And there was the rising urge to do more than just touch them, the fog of their bond a polluting force that he couldn’t completely rid his system of.

“Fuck,” the word was breathy, a whisper slipping out from between her lips.

Then the moment of bliss came crashing down. She had somehow twisted from his grasp, gaining enough awareness of the situation to know the hand on her neck was the cause— he froze in shock when that damning light was diminished. Neither of them saw fit to move as an alarming amount of clarity had begun to trickle back in her consciousness, the connection lessening without a point of contact. It would appear that her own lessons with Snape were beginning to pay off— a development he shouldn’t know whether to be proud of or disappointed by.

“Fuck!” her ears were ringing, the world tilting as she gasped for breath—but the greedy lungfuls only made her even more lightheaded. 

“You know I hate it when you do that,” the accusation was sharp, a throbbing in her temples as she callously shoved him away from her, “Fucking bloody hell.”

Though the push had barely any notable strength behind it, Voldemort heeded the demand all the same. Leaning away to grant her the space she so desired, he studied her in disbelieving wonder. While, in hindsight, it had been an underhanded move on his part, it should have worked by all accounts— considering their past track record, it was a marvel that she had managed to break free without his permission first. And yet, once again, it would appear that he had underestimated Harri Potter’s unwieldy tenacity. That inexplicable talent of hers to always defy and surprise at every turn, producing outcomes that often escaped even his abilities to predict. And what was most surprising about this all was that she had chosen to counteract the effects through _pain_. Even with the physical connection broken, it was still raw and exposed more so than usual— and that pulsating ache on her end was a sensation he could feel just as viscerally. It was a fascinating trick, one that a distant note was made to inquire about later. 

“Language,” he reminded, reaching forward to retrieve the vial that had fallen between the throw pillows.

“Oh, shove off,” she bit back, hands scrubbing irately over her face— it felt as though she had been set on fire, the pain radiating outwards from the curse mark above her brow.

It had taken more concentration and willpower than she was comfortable admitting in order to fend off the pull, a reckless bid to break free of his manipulations. And she was most certainly paying the price for it now— Snape would have her head if he ever knew. During their lessons, he had mentioned that the most successful Occlumens usually concealed their minds during attacks by hyperfixating on a singular emotion or experience. The only downside is that they often relived, physically, that event all over again to a lesser degree. While that wouldn’t be an issue if the memory or emotion was pleasant in nature, it could have unintended consequences if a negative one was chosen— and he had explicitly stated that it could be rather debilitating to endure. So naturally, having disregard for any and all warnings, the girl had done just that. 

Amidst the scramble to escape, Harri found herself focusing on the memory of when Voldemort had touched her scar before either knew the mechanics of the bond. That searing agony that made her feel as though she had been flayed alive, had cleaved her skull in two— a groan tore from her throat, fingers massaging her temples to ease the ache. ‘Snape’s never going to let me live it down.’ It was decided, right then and there, that she wasn’t to ever tell the potions master for the sake of keeping her pride intact. Every limb felt both boneless and weighted at the same time, as though they had been carved from concrete rather than flesh and sinew. Gravity was an enticing call—- she heeded it by sinking down into the couch, relishing in the softness of the pillows.

“Would it really be so terrible if I don’t grow fangs?” she questioned, head turning towards him when he had scoffed in response, “No, I’m serious. Would it be the end of the world if I just remained human?”

Though Harri knew it wasn’t the _only_ reason why she was being forced to drink thestral blood, it was, by a large part, the main underlying reason for her resolute determination against taking the elixirs. It was all in a bid, as pointless as it may be, to retain a vague notion of normalcy for just a touch longer. To continue to hold onto her old life, to not enter this new phase, this unknown transition that seemed so _daunting_. While her friends only had to worry about becoming adults and having their cores finally level out, she was to become an entirely different creature— one that, from his fleeting and brief explanations, had the ability to kill through a mere bite alone. And maybe, just maybe, if she didn’t drink them, it could all be prolonged— could be staved off to allow her to continue to live in that blessed state of ignorance. 

And he would most certainly argue vehemently, would likely take a great deal of offense if he ever overheard her speak the word aloud, but Harri couldn’t fully quell the hateful voice that whispered _‘freak’_. While he viewed it as a privilege, a heralding of a ‘noble lineage’, it was her final damning. By all accounts, her existence was already an anomaly, atypical, a blight that defied nature’s inherent order— the furthest possible thing from the unexceptional one she desperately craved. And for once, just once, the girl considered it would be lovely to have a taste of that dream, to experience what it was like to be so similar to everyone else. ‘Non-freakish’. Turning into a half-snake creature wasn’t exactly congruent to that definition or rose-coloured vision. 

He arched a brow, the corners of his mouth quirking as though the suggestion was a source of endless amusement, “Well, you could— however, I think you are forgetting one small particular, love. You were never human to begin with.”

A beat of silence stretched on into two, then three— the words processed and her eyes flashed with affronted indignation. He just couldn’t go along with her even once, could he? Ignoring the protesting ache in her calves, Harri leapt to her feet and brushed past him. There were calls, ones that demanded she come back— they were paid barely any notice, concentrated efforts striving to ignore that he was trailing after her. A hand shot out to clamp about her wrist and she aggressively wrenched it free, a resentful anger kept simmering only just below the surface.

The girl spun on her heels, voice pitching ever so slightly, “And whose bloody fault is—.”

Without warning or fanfare, she was pulled back to him, stiffening instinctively when his mouth had crashed against hers. Harri blinked in alarm, trying to comprehend how he had managed to move so quickly, to act so brazenly without a single reservation. And it was truly disorienting how immediately that anger deflated, the resentment fleeing from her as though it had been driven out, exorcised from her very being. A hand reached up to tilt her chin for better access— she allowed it, too dumbstruck to consider anything else. Unlike her, his eyes were closed and, from this distance, Harri could easily discern each individual fanned lash that was currently splayed against those high cheekbones— all of the angles and sharpness he was composed of. 

Pulse a flighty cadence, it came as an additional shock when his other hand had found purchase on the small of her waist. The fingers flexed, a searing heat through the blouse’s flimsy material that steered her closer to him— it was oddly natural in the way they seemed to complement the curve of the other’s body, how perfectly they could slot together. And, not for the first time, Harri was unfairly reminded of his height— how a person could possibly be that tall was utterly mystifying. Even with him leaning down, the girl was nearly on her toes to meet him, eyes slipping shut when his lips moved insistently against her own.

Even though she was aware that she should be upset he was kissing her only minutes after manipulating their bond, and insulting her in a roundabout way, it was hard to even entertain that notion— not when she felt as though she was floating, soaring. His feet had begun to move forwards, hers helplessly following the lead in an effort to not break their contact. A bookcase bumped against the knobs of her spine, one of his legs slipping between hers to pin her into place. Distant warning bells were going off at their arranged positions— they were readily ignored when that hand had trailed from the waist to her hip, a resulting squeeze that toed the line between pain and pleasure. It was exhilarating and she felt akin to a livewire, a surge of a restless current without anything to ground her. 

His mouth, she had determined, was a perplexing juxtaposition between soft and hard— the feeling similar to velvet but the force behind them far from gentle. It was a sensation, an experience that could easily become addicting— and, for the first time in her life, Harri could understand the inclination some had towards kissing. The air stored in her lungs, burning from being held for far too long, was gradually being stolen away— so willingly sacrificed to the Devil in exchange for something sweeter, more promising. Back arching from the wall, chasing after what, exactly, she didn’t fully know, her own hands had curled into the broad planes of his shoulders. Nails sunk into the fabric, biting half-moons into the skin below that had earned a deep chuckle on his end. The hold on her chin drifted down to lightly clasp about her throat, fingers a loose collar adorning it— she paid it no mind. Instead, it seemed all current thought was focused, hyper-aware of the warmth seeping from him, entirely fixated on a single word— _‘More’_.

When the demanding swipe of a tongue ran across her bottom lip, an unspoken acknowledgment that sought to oblige her desires, Harri had no reservations in yielding. Behind closed lids were pockets of light, bright bursts of neon colours that punctuated the darkness— an encroaching dizziness that made the world sway on its axis. ‘ _More, more, more.’_ A clash of teeth, the fingers jerking on her neck, a wound coil settling in her stomach, a knot of nerves squirming between her ribs— something bitter overcame her senses.

Not for the first time that night was she taken by surprise, eyes flying open in panic when a liquid was forcibly passed into her mouth from his own— she squirmed, a muffled cry of shock, a refusal to swallow. Scarlet eyes, molten in their heat, were already waiting for her, watching the struggle with a glint of triumph. He refused to pull away. Hands fell to his sternum, a feeble push as the shadows hovering on the periphery grew inwards and started to eclipse her vision. Every instinct was screaming, begging to draw in a blessed breath— the hand loose about the throat had constricted in direct defiance. An insistent downwards drag, the thumb tracing pressured strokes along the main column’s pipe. He was attempting to imitate the act of swallowing, an encouragement for the muscle to function autonomously without her conscious consent. ‘Bastard,’ the thought was spiteful, a glare fixing on him. 

Unable to withstand it any longer, the meek inhales through her nose no longer cutting it, Harri swallowed the elixir. Tears sprung to the corners of her eyes as she gagged on the deluge, the taste overpowering and cloying with how the film coated her tongue.

Voldemort waited for a second longer to ensure she had followed through before dropping the grip and breaking their kiss. His horcrux spluttered for a second, choking and ragged in her breathing as she gulped down air with abandon. Wisely having the foresight to step out of her reach, he tried to stifle the thrill writhing in his chest when that glowing gaze had snapped back to him.

“You bloody psycho!” she accused with a healthy amount of vitriol, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and gaping at him in disbelief.

“Sticks and stones,” he crooned, waving the empty vial in a smug show of victory, “Sticks and stones.”

“You—,” she struggled to find the right words, cheeks flushing in a mixture of embarrassment and outrage, “You could have killed me!”

“Oh please, Harri, don’t be so dramatic. You know I would have never let it go that far,” he flashed her a smile, a set of teeth revealed that seemed far from innocent, “And it’s not like you didn’t enjoy it.”

Her mouth parted and then closed again with an audible snap, completely at a loss for words. Because as much as she _did_ , she refused to give him further gratification by verbally admitting to it. A scream of frustration was threatening to rise, the taste of the blood lingering— it burned her sinuses, the need to cough tenacious in its pursuit. ‘At least he suffered too,’ a hateful thought as she shoved past him, clipping his shoulder in the process. In every sense of the word, she was _done_ for today— done with his antics, his words, his teasing. And, as it currently stood, spending the night away from him seemed like a brilliant plan— after all, she couldn’t be held accountable at this point if she strangled him in his sleep. ‘Would serve him right, the absolute prick.’ Ignoring the lilting calls of where she was going, an edge of amusement in his voice that made her teeth grind, Harri crossed the study to her own, long-forgotten bedroom. 

_“Do you really have to teassse her like that?”_

The last thing Harri had heard before slamming the door behind her was Nagini’s reproachful words, the snake seeing fit to only now just make an appearance. ‘Would have been nice of you to show up earlier.’ Voldemort had apparently said something humorous in response as a stuttering hiss of laughter followed, his own intermixing with the slippery sound.

‘Bloody Dark Lords.’


	57. In the Dark of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! My apologies for taking an unexpected mini-hiatus and for not posting this chapter sooner. This past month has just been a wild, not to mention stressful, time of dealing with working on my own term papers and preparing for finals. To everyone who is still suffering from exam stress--- you can do it! I have full faith in you 💕 
> 
> Thank you as well to everyone who has been so patient with me in terms of uploading. Now that I have some free time, I will be trying to post a bit more regularly during my break 💕 As always, you guys are such amazing readers and I so appreciate your willingness to engage with me in the comments or by bookmarking/subscribing/giving kudos! You are all just absolute angels that I look forward to writing for 💕
> 
> Enjoy!!

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* * *

_‘This is a profoundly stupid idea— even by your standards.’_

The inner-commentary was undercut by exasperation, a snarkiness meant to goad her into second-guessing herself— to change the course of her recklessness and to not go through with the plan. Unfortunately, the girl refused to be lured into its trap, a turn of events that didn’t bode well for its mission. The words were muddled, faint. Distant. A whisper spoken through the muffle of a pillow, one too easily ignored if the conscious effort was made— and that’s exactly what was happening. Harri was choosing to willfully ignore its chiding call, the beginning flickers of the horcrux’s panic as the bathtub filled.

_'Harri. Are you listening? Nothing good is going to amount from this.’_

She turned the handle and the stream of water trickled off into a stop. One drop, then two from the faucet, the surface of the water rippling in response— green eyes were glued to the concentric movement, the curls of steam dancing up playfully into the air. It _was_ a stupid idea— that much the horcrux was right about. But this was also the only plan she could think of at the moment, her brain refusing to cooperate otherwise. And so, despite the begging, the demands to rethink her strategy, she slipped into the tub. A sharp hiss through parted lips at the temperature, the girl gingerly lowered herself down, sinking inch by inch. Her knees, her hips, her stomach, her chest, her collarbones— all slowly submerged. 

And then Harri took the final plunge, eyes screwing themselves shut as the water came rushing in its greedy claim. The initial panic to crest the surface was stamped down, her last breath an acute burn in her lungs— she waited.

Once upon a time, when things had been normal, they had discussed blood traces in class—- back when she had roamed the castle’s vaulted halls and slept under its spires. Such a life now seemed like a distant past, a dream that could have very well been a figment of her imagination. During a time when her concerns had been simple, uncomplicated— when they mainly revolved around upcoming exams, looming matches against Slytherin, and, more short-term though equally important, that evening’s dinner menu. The point was, Harri knew she had studied them. The term had struck a chord when Voldemort so casually announced it during the assembly—- and that meant it existed, somewhere, buried deep within the logs of her memory. All she needed was to access that tucked away file.

_'Can you stop already? You are going to pass out-- Harri, listen.'_

True as its words may be, there was a sense of calm to be found under the water— one where the burdensome trivialities of human existence didn’t quite matter. Like breathing. Here in the clawfoot bath, shoulders sliding further and further down until they rested comfortably against the bottom curve of the porcelain, it was a different world. With the heated pull, the ripples lapping at her skin, the absolute quiet it provided—- if there was any better place to think, Harri couldn't outright name one. And Merlin only knew how badly she needed a solution, the laborious tasks ahead ever so mounting. When the burning in her throat had sharpened, a restless itch bursting behind her breastbone, she only sunk down further. 'Come on, help me,' a silent prayer to the universe, a petition to give her even an inkling— to force herself to enter into her mindscape in search of answers.

_'This isn’t working. So can you stop already before you incur brain damage?'_

Fingers curled into the bottom of the tub to anchor herself down, lungs spasming in their cage— a violent constriction. ‘Come on, come on.’ She needed her consciousness to become detached from this world, to separate itself from reality— to enter into that grey area between life and death, a space where one was not fully committed to one existence or the other. A sense of dizziness, fluorescent bursts of blues, purples, and greens behind closed lids— her own twisted fireworks show. The sensation in her chest had transcended the boundaries from being a mild discomfort to a searing ordeal.

_‘Harri!’_

Flashes of Not-Moody's classes, blurred snippets of his gruff voice echoing as Harri was pulled into her memories.

Heart an erratic thumping, its tempo too uneven, unstable, as darkness grew inwards— weightlessness spread through her limbs, a gripping numbness. Pockets of air slipped past the seal of her lips only to bubble up ominously to the surface.

> The Defense classroom was distorted, lacklustre in colour—- shades of muted greens, reds, and greys where her mind couldn't be bothered to supply further definition. Students sat scattered about the long benches, ill-defined and blurred in their details, their faces smooth masks. Harri paid them no mind, attention latching onto the only crystal clear thing in this poor reconstruction—- a textbook. Spread haphazardly on the table, the title of the section was bolded: **Blood Traces and Their Mechanics**.

Her fingers were twitching, a spasm in the muscles as the lack of oxygen started to deprive them of their autonomy. Distantly, she could register the slowing of her heart, a startling development when compared to the earlier frenzy of its beating.

> Mind turning over, she scanned the text in a rushed manner, the tip of her index finger dragging across the parchment. Time was running out, her body threatening to recall her at any moment. Already, the peripheral edges of the room were darkening, wavering. ‘Come on, come on, c’mon’ Darting eyes, lips mouthing silently the words before her, and there, halfway down the page— her answer.

_‘-ri! Harri!’_

Harri broke the surface with a ragged gasp, choking when air, too much of it and too soon, expanded in her lungs. It stung in the best of ways, a sweetness to it that didn’t derive from the lavender-scented bathwater. Pale hands gripped the tub’s edge to keep herself afloat, trembling fingers weak from their deprivation. And yet, as she curled inwards in the lukewarm water to alleviate the symptoms of shock, Harri couldn’t quite help the burst of victory. It tasted glorious on her tongue— bright and welcomed. She had her answer, the next move clear. The quirk of a small smile, one hand pushing the auburn hair off her face and slicking it back.

"It’s okay. I'm fine," she muttered.

She shifted to rest against the curved slope of the tub, shoulder blades instinctively flexing against the hard porcelain. Half-lidded eyes drifted down to idly watch her hair float in a halo across the surface. The vivid colour was darkened by the water, almost black in nature— save for the clumps that had broken apart, a rebellious few strands that clung to the swell of her chest. They reminded her of capillaries, a delicately intricate web of crimson crisscrossing her sternum. A palm lifted to cup the beginning curve of her left breast, inhalations slowly evening though the burn lingered. Blinking back the water from her fanned lashes, Harri listened to the rhythm of her pulse, the upticks and downbeats of the muscle constricting. And she tried to picture that piece of him inside of her, that little shard that was beginning to speak so freely after having spent a decade and a half in quiet solitude. Brows knitted together as she searched for it, tried to imagine what it must have looked like. Was it like him? Too sharp angles and gleaming teeth, eyes as red as Grecian fire? Or was it different— a formless shape or a flickering shadow? Once upon a time, the notion of it writhing between the empty spaces of her ribs, of it circulating in her veins and finding a home within the chambers of her heart had terrified her. But now? Now, it didn’t so much.

"I'm fine, I promise," she whispered again, trying to coax the horcrux into responding.

Silence greeted her, thoughts far too empty as it refused to answer. There were the slightest twitches of a frown, a growing worry as the seconds ticked on. Perhaps she had gone too far in upsetting it? 

And then the horcrux seemed to have gotten over its sour mood, a disbelieving hiss, _'You really are a fool.’_

The assertion elicited a good-natured scoff on her end and a shake of a dampened head. It was right, of course— Snape had said the exact same thing on countless occasions. And there was a sneaking suspicion that if the two had ever met, the horcrux and the potions master, they would get along just fine. 

Weakened knees lifted her from the bath, a touch too shaky for comfort. There was an ensuing slosh as the cooling water cascaded off her skin, the sound deafening in the quiet of the bathroom. It threatened to spill over the tub’s rim. And then it did, soaking the polished tile underneath bare feet. She paid the mess no mind, not bothering to even reach for a towel, her attention otherwise occupied. After puzzling it through all night, thoughts a racing mess in the wake of her encounter with the Dark Lord, she finally had an answer— now just to pray it was the right one. Trekking puddles across the marble-veined floor, heavy droplets falling from her hair, Harri wrapped a terry cloth robe tight about her frame. Cooled hands cinched it closed, mouth pressed into a grim line. ‘Merlin, this better work.’

* * *

* * *

When she slipped past her bedroom door, cracked as wide as she would dare without it screeching on the hinges, an eerie stillness was there to greet her. The moonlight filtering through the drapes had cast the room in a glow of silver, the shadows in the corners stretched long. Green eyes peered into them uneasily, half-expecting Voldemort to step out from them and to foil her plans once again. He didn’t. 

Harri’s gaze bounced to the mantle, the fire long since dead and the chill clinging to the air an indication that it had been quite some time since a house-elf stopped by. Compared to earlier, the study seemed abandoned. Unwelcoming. As though it knew she was intruding upon its fleeting moment of peace, that she was about to betray its master.

A shiver passed over her, a trail of goosebumps left in its wake— Harri clutched the robe tighter. While it made sense that he wouldn’t be here, the night long into its witching hours, part of her had expected to see the Dark Lord lounging in the armchair that was, irrevocably, _his_. Just as the one to its left had become, undeniably, _hers_. Yet, the man appeared to be otherwise engaged. Squinting across the way to his door, Harri noted the slivers of orange leaking out from under its threshold— a warm radiance that confirmed its occupant was still awake. She would have to be on guard— a shaky inhale was followed by a controlled exhale, parted lips forcing the air out quietly.

Bare feet were a whisper over the ground, heels elevated so the body’s weight was shifted to the toes. Harri crept with purpose, attention fixated onto the desk— a homing beacon in the darkness. It was where her prize lay in wait, a siren’s call with the victory it guaranteed. The girl rounded the piece of furniture, hands skirting down the series of drawers carved inconspicuously into its side. Fingers curled experimentally around one of the brass handles, the slightest tug refusing to give as the topmost drawer rattled on the hinges. ‘It’s locked.’ All things considered, it wasn’t a surprise seeing how paranoid the Dark Lord was— only he would feel the need to take extra precautions within his own study. Green eyes darted about the mess of parchment, quills, and inkwells that littered the table’s surface in a blind search for a key. She shifted through the sheaves of documents, hurried touches that disrupted them from their resting place— and yet, nothing of note was found.

A creak cut through the silence of the room.

Tension licked up the knobs of her spine, limbs freezing at the unexpected sound. An owlish gaze snapped upwards, heart pulsating in the back of her throat. There was no one. A delayed reaction of relief, the cool wash of it as Harri tried to swallow past the lump. ‘It’s just the house shifting,’ she tried to rationalise, letting go of a breath she wasn’t even aware that had been held. Yet, despite the logic, the justification aimed to quell her nerves, she couldn’t bring herself to look away from the carved oak door across the study. It was so innocent looking, so unobtrusive in how it blended into the wall. Above suspicion or apprehension— that is, if one remained blissfully ignorant as to who was on the other side. And there was a creeping feeling that she had narrowly dodged a bullet, that luck, though on her side, had barely saved her hide. ‘Better hurry it up.’ Taking a beat to watch the scroll of the door’s handle, just to make certain it wasn’t turning, Harri quickly dropped to one knee. There was no keyhole impressed into the metal, she quickly realised, and how that discovery inspired a deep-set frown. The pad of her index finger idly brushed over the cooling brass, eyes narrowing a fraction as she tried to recall what he had done earlier. A distant memory of a latch springing free and the aspen wand being placed inside— ‘All he did was touch it though’.

The revelation hit her full force— the drawers responded to his magic. Her forehead fell against the desk’s edge with a groan. She felt foolish for not seeing this ahead of time, for not guessing that Voldemort wouldn’t keep the desk locked with something as muggle, as fallible and so easily circumvented as a _key_. ‘Bloody typical.’ Already, her mind was spinning and whirling and racing in trying to find a way around this little hiccup in her grand scheme. ‘Forcing it open is probably out of the question,’ she confirmed it with another quick jerk, the handle rattling in protest. ‘Maybe I could just explode the entire thing,’ the idea was backed by a biting sourness— it was appealing enough if not for only letting her physically vent some frustration. But even that, she figured, would most likely backfire— who knew the number of enchantments he had even put on it in the first place. ‘Then there’s no other choice.’ Retreating was the logical next step— to head back to her room, lick her wounds, and find out another way to keep stalling.

She moved to rise, the bile of failure sharp in the back of her throat, when the strangest memory had given her pause. It was summoned to the forefront of her consciousness unbidden— herself, a 12-year-old with lanky limbs and knobby knees, standing in front of the hidden chamber. The 7-pronged snake that had waited decades to hear its ancient tongue once more— how it had slid open all too eagerly when she had accommodated its greatest desire. _‘It could be the same.’_ Harri eyed the brass handle, tongue running over the roof of her mouth in contemplation at the horcrux’s suggestion. Truthfully, it was more than likely a long shot. What were even the chances? But, then again, if he truly wanted to protect the contents of the desk, why wouldn’t he rely on parseltongue to keep out prying eyes— an ability that, according to him, he only knew of 2 users. Anxious fingers drummed against the cluttered surface, the sound dulled by the parchment, an internal struggle to not get her expectations up. They stilled. ‘Screw it. Might as well try.’

 _“Open?”_ the word slipped out as a question, a lilt that betrayed her uncertainty.

For a moment, nothing had happened. It was as though the drawer was taking measure of her, striving to determine if it should heed the command from anyone other than its master. She hung in a pendulous state somewhere between disappointment and hope, willing the latch to spring free for her as it had for him. And then it eventually came— the slow click of a lock turning. Not quite able to bring herself to fully believe it had worked, Harri blinked in surprise and chanced a quick glance over the desk’s edge to make certain she didn’t have an unanticipated audience. Pacified when there was no one, the girl rifled through the desk’s contents with a sense of urgency. 

Kneeling made the task more difficult than probably necessary but Harri wasn’t inclined to fully stand, far too nervous of that door opening without warning and revealing a red-eyed man leaning against its frame. It would be fitting for his character, she figured, to pop up at the most inopportune moment. And, as it currently stood, that was a risk she couldn’t take— not when her plan was working so far. Skittish fingers brushed against a manner of all objects, blindly searching for the comforting weight of a wand. Part of her feared that he may have moved it between now and their last encounter, that he had used his uncanny, and quite inconvenient, ability of foresight to relocate it to a more secure spot.

Such worries evaporated, curled away like smoke in the air, when the pads of her fingers met with the rough hide of a leather cord. Triumph. A roguish grin unfurled as she received her prize. There was a faint light clinging to the grooves of the white wood, cornflower blue and pulsating rhythmically— oddly enough, the aureole of its glow was almost comforting to behold in the darkness of the study. It lapped over her skin, turning her into a bioluminescent entity in the night. ‘The stasis charm,’ a distant thought, idly turning over the aspen wand— and then she noticed the stains. The beauty of the radiance had distracted her from them, a pleasant diversion from the gore that marred its surface. Even now, those spots glinted in their wet sheen, refusing to dry down or flake off— a telling sign that the charm was fulfilling its intended purpose. A heavy swallow. It was one thing to see blood being shed— her own, a stranger’s, it didn’t matter. In fact, the girl had seen so much of it in her lifetime that she thought herself immune to the shock value it had for some. After all, her entire existence was just one canvas dyed in various shades of red— had been from the moment she was brought into this world, scarlet-faced and screaming.

But as emerald eyes roamed along the straight and narrow grain of the wand, she had come to the conclusion it was an entirely different thing seeing the blood of someone you knew. Someone that you cared for, would risk life and limb to protect. To know this was Hermione’s very life’s essence being held in her palm. And a morbid passing thought formed wondering how much more had been spilt at the Hog’s Head. Or how much more would be in the future? 

‘Focus.’ Harri blinked once, then twice, grip flexing about the corded handle— she still had a task to complete. With a half-nod for her own benefit, and spurred on by the burst of victory, the girl rose on aching knees. Long since had her toes turned numb from the cold air nipping at her dampened skin, the pins prickling in her legs barely felt as she opened the locked drawers in a hurried search. She needed something sharp, something that could break the skin— a knife, in this instance, would be preferable. As much as she was used to pain, it wasn’t a habit of hers to willingly inflict copious amounts and the idea of trying to carve into herself with a nib of a quill wasn’t exactly an attractive one.

Thankfully, Fate was feeling inclined towards mercy as in the second drawer, nestled among inkwells and coloured waxes for seals, was a letter opener. Setting down the wand and exchanging it for the knife, Harri warily tested its weight. It was surprisingly heavy in her hand, the golden filigree inlaid into the handle not just for show— the slanted edge of the blade glinted as it caught a refraction of moonlight. ‘Perfect’. Attention bouncing back to the aspen, teeth worried her bottom lip. It was a reckless plan to bank on, a last-ditch strategy that spoke volumes to her desperation. After all, the answer she had found was borne from a buried memory of a textbook that may very well have been a product of her mind’s own wishful thinking— if that was the case, this might not work. But say that it did, say she could confuse the trace— Voldemort would be livid if he found out what she had done. ‘Not if. _When_ ,’ her mind supplied unhelpfully, reminding her of the inevitability of the situation as she twirled the opener in her grasp. It was undeniable that he would be furious, that he would be on a warpath once he discovered her meddling. Her deceit. ‘It’ll be fine. I’ll find something else to barter with,’ a hesitant thought that lacked any reassurance. But that was their game, after all. Trading and bargaining, a relationship built upon promises and deals that had a compounding interest rate attached.

 _‘And do tell, what, exactly, are you going to trade with? We both know that negotiation isn’t your strongest talent,’_ a snide voice answered in kind— Harri tried to ignore it. 

“That’s a problem for later,” she muttered under her breath.

In all honesty, she just needed time. Time to plan, to think, to plot. For it to all slow down, for everything to stop moving so quickly— to have a blessed second where she wasn’t being constantly bombarded with issue after issue. And how paradoxical was it that she, someone who was supposedly immortal, was lacking the one thing that she was supposed to have a surplus of? But there it was again. That six-letter epithet that summed up the entire existence of one Harri Potter. Her ever-present companion, that private joke she wasn’t privy to understanding: I-r-o-n-i-c. A humourless scoff, a dry swallow. The blade was pressed into the unblemished softness of her left palm.

A slow drag, the skin splitting under the cruel edge, a sting as scarlet welled in its wake. Harri sucked in a sharp hiss of a breath as the cut began to weep, its path neatly bisecting her life and heart lines. Refusing to look away from the gore, the girl wiped the letter opener clean against the hem of her bathrobe. It wouldn’t do, after all, to have the evidence of her deception just casually lying around. But then mild panic flared to life at the realisation she may have cut too deeply, the blood bubbling up at an unanticipated rate.

“Shit shit shit shit,” she mumbled, cupping her palm to prevent it from spilling over onto the desk and staining the sheaves of parchment.

Gingerly reaching for the wand, she enclosed the injured palm about it. The ache sharpened as the girl drew the length of the aspen along the incision, coating the already darkening spots on the wood further. In the memory, the textbook hadn’t been clear as to how much outside blood was required to confuse the trace, to render it incapable of pinpointing one’s location. In fact, the passage had only mentioned it as a passing note as a downside— the spell was only capable of tracking one individual at a time. Nonetheless, Harri figured it was best to err on the side of caution by being rather thorough.

The girl only returned the wand to its original hiding spot when she was satisfied that it had been polluted enough, that not a drop or spot remained that wasn’t coated with her own blood. Untying the bathrobe, shuddering at the onslaught of chilled air against her naked torso, Harri tightly wrapped the waist tie around the cut. A mental note was made to heal it when she was safe back in her room— when the threat of being caught wasn’t imminent. She was about to close the drawer, driven forward by the wings of victory and smug pride at knowing what she had accomplished tonight, when something else caught her eye. Stuffed near the back, tucked deep within, was an envelope. Lifting her gaze to the door in an internal debate if she could spare just a few more minutes, Harri shifted her weight from one foot to another. There were very little instances in which she could glimpse into Voldemort’s psyche, to see that private side to him that he often hid away— and how the innocent sight of a mere envelope inspired a morbid fascination. What was so precious about it that he had deemed it significant enough to keep locked away? Despite all logic telling her to ignore that burning curiosity, to wisely retreat while Fate was on her side, Harri couldn’t help herself. She reached for the letter.

It was ivory and wrinkled at the corners, the burgundy seal one that she could recognise just about anywhere. ‘He kept his Hogwarts letter?’ A surge of fondness as her thumb lovingly brushed over the crest impressed into the wax, bittersweet memories of when she had received her own. Had he been just as excited? As elated? Truthfully, it was hard to imagine Voldemort ever being giddy. Or, for that matter, being a child— that those broad shoulders and imposingly tall frame hadn’t always been there. A boy without red eyes and whose soul was still whole, complete. Unadulterated. Of course, it would be a foolish thing to ever think, a cruel delusion to labour under, that such a child still existed. No, that boy was long dead, lost to the ages and twisted by the cruelties of the world— and of himself. But yet, he hadn’t always been a Dark Lord, now had he? Even he had to have some reaction to learning his identity as a wizard, had to have experienced something upon holding that acceptance letter for the first time, and realising there was a world out there that would welcome him in kind. Or so, Harri had hoped. It may have been wishful thinking on her end but it was easier to relate to him this way, to understand as one outcast to another. The quirk of a smile when she turned over the envelope, a piqued interest to see how it had been addressed to him— Mr. Tom Riddle of so-and-so room at so-and-so Orphanage.

She froze. Much to her unbridled surprise, it was not addressed to a _‘Mr. Tom Riddle’_ , but, rather, to one _‘Ms. Harri Potter’_. _‘The Cupboard under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey,_ ’ it read, the emerald ink and cursive scrawl unmistakable. Harri blinked once, twice, three times, turning it over and over again just to make sure she had read it correctly. Though unable to fully explain it, it was disconcerting to see that her own acceptance letter had found its way into a locked drawer at Malfoy Manor. ‘Why does he have it?’ The last time she had seen it, the letter had been safely tucked under a loose floorboard along with the other pitiful baubles and mementos of her youth— scraps and bits she had managed to collect throughout the years in an attempt to create her own materialistic identity. To concrete her existence into this reality, to make it feel as though she existed as a complete person and not just simply ‘Girl’. It had once been safely hidden from prying eyes and hateful hands that despised her to have anything of her own. Now, however, it would seem that the letter had been relocated. Logically, she knew that he had gone to the Dursley’s home. That he would have seen the cupboard and the locks littering the spare bedroom’s frame. Would have walked through that pastel pink nightmare of a living room, with its lace curtains and floral motifs, only to witness the shrine of photos dedicated to ‘dearest Dudley’. Would have been privy to knowing the extent to which she had been isolated, scorned, repulsed by her closest living family. But never did she entertain the idea that he had actually gone _inside_ her old room. That he had knowingly perused her life, had looked upon the tatters of it, the shame, and dissected it piece by piece. And, to top it all off, had claimed a bit of it for his own— had stolen a twisted version of a trophy and seen fit to bring it back with him. Fingers tightened and crinkled the envelope further, trying to process the feelings of raw exposure—.

The handle turned.

An alarmed gaze snapped towards the sound of accompanying footsteps and muffled voices filtering through the oak door. Pushing the drawer closed hastily, mind reeling, Harri settled for ducking behind the desk. The fingers of her injured hand clutched the robe closed, cursing silently as she pressed her back against the column of drawers. The brass handles dug into her skin through the terry cloth, her shoulder blades shifting under the skin in protest. A breath was drawn and held, refusing to be let go for fear of drawing attention. The wall opposite to her hiding spot had been bathed in orange light, two distorted silhouettes painted upon the bookshelves. Eyeing them, she watched in horror.

“My Lord, Thicknesse—.”

Harri frowned at the lofty tone of Lucius being interrupted, one of the shadows raising what looked to be an ill-defined outline of a hand. She went rigid, refusing to look away with bated breath. Did he know that she was here? Already, she could vividly picture Voldemort casually stalking over to the desk, his eyes narrowed in that typical predatory manner, mouth lifting up into a sneer—.

“My Lord?”

“It’s nothing, Lucius. I thought I had sensed something,” Voldemort responded slowly, a guarded quality to his voice, “But I appear to have been mistaken.”

“A-ah, I see.”

There was a clearing of a throat and Lucius was quickly rushing out, “Thicknesse has assured me the wards have been put into place and the transfer can begin as early as Friday morning. I have already arranged for a suitable team to escort them to the new grounds.” 

She watched the silhouette belonging to the Dark Lord with caution, tracking as it shifted across the shelving, distorting and narrowing. There were measured steps across the carpet, the pronounced clip of Oxford shoes followed by the sound of liquid sloshing into a glass. Harri only dared to breathe through her nose, trying to pinpoint their exact location in the room. Across from her was the door to her chambers, closed and mocking from afar— taunting as though to say ‘you shouldn’t have wasted your time’. Even if she did decide to make a break for it, to slink along the shadows, she doubted she could have been fast enough— and if she was caught? Merlin, have mercy. Having to explain what she was doing there with a bleeding palm and half-naked in the middle of the night wasn’t exactly an experience to look forward to— _especially_ after their latest little encounter. Suddenly, the girl found herself unable to look at the bookcases, a mortified flush fanning her skin upon remembering that, just a few hours prior, she had found herself in a rather precarious position against them.

‘Bloody hell,’ her eyes drifted up to the ceiling, auburn crown resting against the desk. It was best to just wait it out until they left. And at least there was one advantage to her current predicament— she might get some answers. It was odd that the Malfoy patriarch was here this late, his tone far too self-satisfied to indicate anything good was happening. And what was so urgent that it couldn’t wait until morning? And what did ‘transfer’ and ‘new grounds’ refer to, exactly? Though she didn’t quite dare to move, Harri tilted her head, ears straining to hear over the rush of her blood pounding in them.

“Excellent, Lucius. Prepare a press statement and have it on my desk before then.”

“Of course, My Lord,” a hurried reply, a shadow bending in half in a show of subservience.

“Though, if I may, My Lord” Lucius’s words were stilted, uncertain, “What of using the girl? It would certainly be to your advantage to have her, ah, assist in this endeavour. With the popularity she has and the love of the common people, she could surely rally them in support? ”

There was a stretch of quiet between the men, a tensed and weighty thing that even Harri wilted under from her hiding spot. She waited in nervously strung anticipation, fingers tightening about the robe. Lucius was bold in offering up a suggestion, apparently too high on the earlier compliment to recognise he was overstepping his bounds. Though, perhaps, Voldemort wouldn’t mind? There was a clink of a glass being forcefully set down, thunderous in the lull of conversation, and she instinctively winced at the unpleasant sound. ‘Guess not.’

“Leave Harri to me,” Voldemort responded sharply.

Green eyes stared unblinkingly at the crown moulding, shoulders drawing up anxiously. It was a troubling thing to overhear a conversation involving oneself, and even more so when one remained oblivious to the particulars or context. But it was especially rattling when a plan was being formed that somehow involved, and yet also didn’t, one in turn. Unease sparked to life, the realisation trickling in that this was the first time she had ever heard the Dark Lord refer to her as ‘Harri’ in front of one of his followers. Sure, in the comforts of privacy he freely used her first name without hesitation— but in public, and especially in the company of his Death Eaters, it was always ‘Miss Potter’ or, on the rare occasion, simply ‘Harri Potter’. Sometimes, if he felt like really mixing things up, he would just use her last name curtly— but never just ‘Harri’. It made her stomach twist in a churning sensation, a heavy pit. Though why, precisely, she could not understand.

However, her introspection was cut short when one of the shadows moved, its outline getting less fuzzy and becoming more detailed. Focused. It drew nearer and, for one prolonged moment of wrought nerves, she feared her hiding spot had been discovered. That she would be found out, her deceit prematurely uncovered and, ultimately, ending her fleeting role as a spy.

But when the rustling of fabric came, one of the men apparently retrieving a cloak from the rack near the desk, she had been almost tempted to sigh in relief. Of course, Harri wouldn’t dare to allow herself that indulgence, not yet at least— a low, controlled exhale of a stuttering breath was what was settled for in the end.

“I will deal with the girl, Lucius. Focus on upholding your end and see to it that Avery is informed,” came his clipped instructions, “And do relay to your son, once he arrives, that I do not want a _single_ word spoken to her on this matter. If I hear otherwise, I can assure you that it will be met with my utmost _displeasure._ ”

The threat hung in the air— even from behind the desk, Harri knew he had meant it. In her mind’s eye, she could already so clearly picture his posture. That slight lift of his chin whenever he doled out a warning, how those hellfire eyes tended to flash in the wake of his promise, the tension that would enter the curve of his jaw. Having been on the receiving end of that look a fair share in her short life, it was one she had come to anticipate whenever the pitch in his voice lowered. And, judging by the lack of a response, Lucius now had the misfortune of being in her shoes. _‘At least he has the self-preservation to remain silent.’_ It was a fair enough assessment and not one she could fault the blond for— not everyone had the same reckless, almost-bordering-on-the-suicidal-at-times abandon she did when it came to the Dark Lord. Nor the afforded protection of housing his soul. But with the stretch of quiet also came numerous questions, the mystery behind their conversation mounting. Jagged piece after jagged piece was being presented and none of them seemed to fit congruently— a mess of a puzzle. ‘Draco’s coming back?’ The tidbit brought with it a vague sense of alarm that the school year was already at its end and a sense of muted giddiness at their impending reunion. Then it was quickly overshadowed by a more perplexing line of thought. ‘Draco knows what’s happening.’ And though Harri would be loathed to admit it, hating the bitterness that twinged in her at the thought, the boy was in on Voldemort’s plotting before she was.

“O-of course, My Lord,” another low bow of the shadow across the shelves, the click of a door handle opening.

“I assure you, Draco will say nothing to her. You have my word.”

The door closed behind them with a soft click, a finality that plunged the study into a suspended state of existence. It was silent, devoid of any sound— save for the white noise in her eardrums and the crinkle of paper as she crushed the Hogwarts letter. It would appear that she had exchanged one rabbit hole for another, one task accomplished only to be presented immediately with a different one. And, unbeknownst to her, far too wrapped up in her introspection to take notice, the lacerated flesh of her palm knitted itself back together.

* * *

* * *

Harri returned to her chambers shortly after, only lingering behind long enough to ensure the men weren’t coming back. The events of the past few hours were finally catching up, mowing her down and leaving her mind frazzled, her body weary. The near drowning to induce a meditative state, the adrenaline from sneaking about, and from almost getting caught, the sting that was suspiciously no longer there— entirely too much to process in one day. Seeping past the drawn curtains were wisps of pale light, tinted blue with the tells of the approaching dawn. Frankly, sleep was the only thing she truly desired at the moment, the very idea of it heavenly. And the girl wasn’t one to deny herself any longer despite that little voice within the recesses of her mind screaming that she should be planning her own schemes. _‘Worry about it in the morning’_ — it was a persistent thought, a firmness found in its coaxing.

Peeling back the duvet and slipping into the silken sheets, a burst of sluggish contentment at the softness, Harri surrendered to the call. Crumpled Hogwarts letter tucked in one hand, bloodied fabric wound about the other, darkness overcame her.

* * *

* * *

Her reprieve, unfortunately, had only endured for a few hours— barely enough time to enter the throes of deep sleep and to be carried away by vivid dreams. There was a flurry of activity about the room, a cheerful humming set to a tuneless melody— Harri absolutely refused to acknowledge the unwanted presence. A whisper of fabric sliding against iron rails followed, the click of latched windows being lifted, the dulcet tones of birdsong carried by the crisp morning breeze. With a groan, the girl stubbornly buried her face into the downy pillows, already having the sense to predict what was about to happen. And sure enough, the drawn drapes about the canopied bed were thrown wide, the morning sun flooding through them to warm her skin. ‘Of bloody course.’

“Rise and shine,” came the chipper voice of Narcissa.

Harri didn’t heed the instruction right away. Rather, she burrowed deeper under the duvet, mumbling in blatant protest when the hurried steps of the older woman hadn’t retreated like she had been angling for. At this point, the amount of sleep she had received was better suited to be called a ‘nap’ and getting up ranked extremely low on her list of priorities. An impatient, though gentle, tap on her shoulder, the rounded nail tip felt through the plush covers. 

“Madam Malkin will be here within the hour for your fitting, child. Unless you want to greet her in your pajamas, it would be wise to get up now.”

Judging from the lilt in her voice, the Malfoy woman was in a good mood. ‘At least one of us is,’ a sullen thought as Harri threw the covers off her head and hauled herself into a sitting position. It was slightly jarring to see the witch be this lively so early in the morning and Harri suspected that it had to do with the fact they were in her bedroom rather than the Dark Lord's— even though the man was always long gone by the time she woke up, Narcissa was usually hesitant, cautious. Wary. ‘Then again, Nagini’s presence probably doesn’t help,’ an amused thought as she watched the blonde bend over a silver platter on the side table, pouring a healthy amount of coffee into a gold-rimmed mug— it was chased with equal parts cream, equal parts sugar.

“Good heavens— Harri! What have you done?!”

Harri froze mid-way of accepting the mug, jolting at the alarmed quality Narcissa’s voice had taken on. And then refined hands were clasping at her own bound in bloodied fabric, the Malfoy woman rushing to unravel it with muttered, reproachful breaths. Excuses were already forming and Harri was silently berating herself for not taking care of it as she had originally planned. Who knew how ghastly it looked now, most likely having bled through the night. Infection was probable and—.

There was nothing there. No wound, no weeping incision, not even a pink line to indicate where it once had been. Narcissa seemed equally confused, wiping away the flaking blood with one end of the robe’s waist tie, nervous fingers prodding at the soft palm for any signs of injury. The beginnings of a frown twitched in the corners of her mouth, mind puzzling over when she had possibly healed herself. Harri was more than certain that she hadn’t.

“O-oh, I cut myself last night,” Harri explained slowly, trying to sound confident in her answer.

“By accident, of course!” she added when Narcissa had looked up sharply with evident worry, “But I healed myself. Just forgot to take off the bandage, I guess.”

Pale eyes watched her shrewdly, a shaky smile as she folded the waist tie and set it on the bed, “I see. Well, you did an excellent job. Though, if that happens again, please do call me or a house-elf first.”

Narcissa handed her the mug with a shake of her head and a click of her tongue, “You certainly know how to liven up my mornings, don’t you?”

Harri graciously accepted the coffee, a strained smile tossed the woman’s way— she let it slip the minute Narcissa turned back to the tray. The cup felt warm between her hands, a comforting heat as it was raised to her lips. It had scalded her tongue on the first slow sip, a trickle of fire down the column of her throat— not that she entirely minded. With the delayed release of caffeine in her system, her mind started to replay last night with a degree of lucidity born from hindsight. From the hurried snippets of conversation, Voldemort was planning something— and she highly doubted anything good would arise from it. After all, plots made in the witching hours were unlikely to be anything but nefarious in nature. Another slow sip. ‘And Draco somehow knows.’ She absentmindedly turned the mug in her palms, rotating it twice counterclockwise. That was the most perplexing thing, the puzzle piece that eluded her understanding. From what she had gathered on how the Death Eater hierarchy functioned, the boy was positioned rather lowly. As a teenager, and a relatively new recruit, there was no feasible way that he should be apprised of the Dark Lord’s plans. ‘So where does he fit into all of this?’

Though, all things considered, it was best to look at Draco’s involvement as a blessing in disguise. Out of everyone, he would be the person more inclined to a loosened tongue around her, the one she could probably pry answers out of. Harri drained the cup, barely noticing the bitterness of the dregs that followed. 

A breakfast tray was placed over her lap, a vibrant display of orange tomatoes and poached eggs. Harri set the mug down, registering distantly that Narcissa had disappeared into the closet in pursuit of an appropriate outfit to greet their guests— apparently, a bathrobe with a blood-stained hem wasn’t going to cut it. Decidedly avoiding the wedged tomatoes, she settled on tearing the toast into smaller pieces, popping them into her mouth, and unenthusiastically chewing. ‘Well, at least the wand situation is taken care of.’ It was a small victory in the grand scheme of things, hardly worthy of celebration until it was certain that it would work— nonetheless, she felt the flickers of accomplishment. 

And yet, she was also suffering from no small amount of unease. There was the matter of finding something else to bargain with, another tidbit to distract and appease him. ‘Maybe I could offer up a new deal?’ Though, as it was so kindly pointed out last night, her negotiation skills could be a hit or miss. She sourly tore the crust off the bread, leaving it as crumbled pieces on the plate.

Her fork toyed with the delicate skin of the egg, not quite puncturing the yolk— green eyes slid to the left hand gripping the metal utensil. Her gaze narrowed a fraction in distrust. Despite her best attempts to recall, Harri was confident that she hadn’t consciously healed herself last night. That she hadn’t willed forth her magic to stop the bleeding and to knit together the lacerated flesh. But, despite that, there wasn’t a single trace of what had transpired— not a scar, not a scratch, not a mark. ‘Troubling’ was the word that came to mind but even that fell short in fully capturing the situation— though, the time to worry about it wasn’t now. It was best to chalk it up to a fluke and redirect her focus to more important, pressing matters. Like Ginny. Like getting some answers from her about this Grindelwald mess the Order was seemingly embroiling themselves in. Like securing her freedom and returning her back to the arms of the Weasley clan. ‘Get answers, get Ginny’s freedom, and then worry later.’ It was a decisive list, a resolute course of action. She actively forced the tension to bleed out from the tendons of her flexed hand, relaxing and smoothing it over the duvet covers instead.

“Narcissa?” Harri called out, “Would it be possible to cancel Malkin for today? I have some important matters that I need to deal with.”

There was an affronted scoff from the closet, Narcissa emerging two seconds later with a bundle of dove grey silk in her arms. She merely shook her head in a dismissive manner, one stray blonde curl bouncing with the motion. Draping the dress over the edge of the chaise, pale eyes passed critically over the girl— it was difficult to ignore the tightness in her posture, the pinched look in a far-off gaze. A coil wound too tightly, the question remaining if it was going to snap from the tension or unexpectedly spring loose. ‘So much stress in one so young,’ it was a pitying thought and Narcissa found herself unable to do anything but watch the redhead from the corner of her eye as she removed the tray. A quick glance down and her brows lowered slightly— it had been barely touched. Placing the still-full plates down near the door, the woman racked her brain to find the right approach, the correct words that would relax the girl. Truthfully, the suggestion of cancelling a fitting was unfathomable to her— for a woman raised in the world of privilege and aristocracy, it was these kinds of occasions that were the most exciting. Even as a girl, younger than Harri is now, they had always been her favourite, an enchanting mark on her youth that meant far more than the balls or parties. To see the magic unfold of the dress’s creation, to touch fabrics and jewels that a majority of the population couldn’t even dream of. But even if Harri hadn’t been raised in a similar upbringing, she, at the very least, had to enjoy shopping? Of trying on pretty things? After all, what girl could resist?

“I am afraid Madam Malkin is rather busy as it is and it would be remiss of us to impose the inconvenience of rescheduling onto her,” she explained slowly and retrieved a black vial from the vanity.

“Not to mention we barely have any time left until your birthday. Really, she is doing us a favour by agreeing to this on such a short notice. And you wouldn’t want to be rude by rejecting such a gracious offer, would you?”

Harri eyed the vial with no small amount of distaste and reached for it with as much fervour as a man walking to the gallows. There was some truth in the older woman’s reasoning— it _was_ short notice. But considering the extent of her closet, she couldn’t find the practicality behind a fitting. Why on Earth did she need a new dress when half of the wardrobe she already had remained unworn? Uncorking the glass, a vain attempt to not breathe in the fumes, an auburn crown was tilted back to swallow. Despite the efforts to not let the elixir linger for too long on her tongue, she could still taste it— that acrid film that clung foully, offending and sharp to the point her eyes watered. A dry cough and a sugar cube was offered up in apology. It dissolved far too quickly in her mouth.

“It really isn’t necessary, Narcissa, this whole gala thing. And I really have other plans that—.”

“Can wait,” Narcissa interjected, gesturing with her head towards the vanity, “Now come, let’s see what we can do about that tangled mess.”


	58. Refractions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! First off, Happy New Year ✨✨ I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season and here's to surviving 2020 🥂 Secondly, I am sorry it took a bit longer to get this chapter up-- after the holidays, things were slow to settle down and then I had to edit this 10k monster. That being said, this chapter is a bit longer/heftier because I just had far too much fun with writing it 😂 It ended up getting away from me and I actually had to cut some material lol. 
> 
> Things are going to be very fun in these next few upcoming instalments, particularly chapters 60 and 61, so just bear with me a touch longer 💕 As usual, you guys are so amazing! I had so much fun replying to your comments on the last chapter and thank you to everyone who takes the time to leave me one/bookmark/subscribe/kudos 💕 The love you have shown this fic is unreal and I absolutely appreciate every single one of you!
> 
> Enjoy! 💕

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* * *

“I’m assuming you’ve already heard the news!”

The suspended quiet of the headmaster’s office was shattered, the peace cleaved in two by the walnut doors being thrown open— they vibrated on their polished hinges, a low, thunderous clamour. Severus felt it down to his very teeth, his bones and marrow— that sense of foreboding that left him prematurely exhausted by what was to come. A storm was forming on the horizon, ominous clouds rolling in at an alarming speed— and, much to his immense dismay, it was taking the shape of his godson. Unbidden, dark eyes darted to the rotating hourglass, the suspended globe tilting on an invisible axis, and he watched the slow trickle of obsidian sand fall through the funnel with dejected longing. He had been well on track to earning some much-deserved peace— barely an hour was left in his post as acting headmaster before summer vacation would officially begin. A mere 60 minutes later and he would have been relieved of the duties afforded to him for just a few blissful, tranquil months.

Though, as per usual, the universe felt it appropriate to subvert any and all of his longstanding desires— particularly those for solitude. A resigned click of his tongue, he forced his attention to the boy instead, passing over him with shrewd appraisal. Draco’s countenance was twisted and there was rising colour in his normally pale cheeks. Much like the forebearers of his name, the Malfoy heir possessed a penchant for the dramatic and a predisposition towards hysterics— and, in Severus’s humble opinion, it was always best to try to discern what was wrong ahead of time for the sake of keeping his sanity intact. Of course, that was easier said than done when everything, as of late, seemed to be wrong. Thin fingers continued to guide the quill across the ledger, a brief glance up to the shock of blond hair. The usual slicked back style had been foregone, the strands almost messy, wild. Unkempt— a testament that something was truly amiss.

“Good afternoon to you as well, Draco,” Severus drawled.

That was all the invitation Draco needed before he was marching into the circular room, the heavy doors swinging closed. His strides were stilted, longer than usual, and driven by an outraged purpose. The starched material of the school’s button-down had been uncuffed at the wrists and crudely shoved up towards his elbows, a futile attempt to combat the balm of summer— even in the heart of the castle, it was stifling. Though, that vague sense of being smothered wasn’t fully due to the weather. This entire year had been choking him— and how he couldn’t wait to leave behind the noxious rumours that festered in the Great Hall, in the common room, in the dorms. In fact, he had been hastily packing, all too eager to board the Express in a bid for his freedom— to return to the solace of the Manor and a girl with quick, little smiles— when the letter from his father had arrived. And, oh, how its contents dampened his good mood considerably. The polished toes of his uniform’s loafers bumped against the desk’s edge. Dark eyes met his for a brief moment before falling away, his godfather resuming his writing, head bowed in concentration.

“My father’s letter was just delivered. The Dark Lord’s mandate has passed with the Council’s approval.” 

Snape had to resist the urge to scoff. Was this what had sent the boy into such a state? It wasn’t exactly new, nor unheard of, for the Dark Lord to have gotten his way— in fact, it would have been more shocking to hear otherwise. After all, the so-called ‘Council’ possessed very little influence in dissuading him from any course of action, the assembly mostly comprised of his own Death Eaters— the greatest ruse to grant the public a false sense of security that their Sovereign still had a check to his power. 

“Indeed.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at the dismissive reply and leant forward to place his hands on the desk, “I also heard that _Harri’s_ name was added as a primary supporter.”

The quill stilled.

It had happened reflexively, the barest sign of an outward reaction that Snape would allow himself. Now it was making sense why Draco had all but charged into his office— and even the headmaster found himself in a state of bewilderment at the news. The idea of the girl somehow getting involved was perplexing, especially considering the nature of the edict— and one that, truthfully, wrought his nerves. In hindsight, he supposed it was only logical that the Dark Lord was dragging her into such a grandiose scheme— the man would have to be blind to not recognise the public advantage she held as the ‘Girl Who Lived’. And it certainly wasn’t by chance that he had made himself her guardian— no, ‘chances’ weren’t a thing when it came to his Lord, a lesson he had learned the hard way. But the question still remained what was possibly to be the girl’s upcoming role? Because the truth stood that Harri Potter was the furthest thing from a politician. A fighter? True. A proficient dueler? Absolutely— Severus had witnessed it himself on numerous occasions. But she wasn’t very socially tactical, her personality too brazen and brash to navigate the finer nuances required of negotiation.

And, most concerning, why hadn’t he been made aware of this development sooner? A knot in the pit of his stomach at the realisation that he hadn’t been apprised of any of this. He, Severus Snape, one of the Dark Lord’s closest confidants, had been pushed to the periphery. It was unsettling— and, dare he say, almost insulting to have been clued in by a schoolboy, one whose ink had barely dried on his left arm. Was this merely an off chance occurrence? Or was it to be more permanent? If the latter, then how was he supposed to work to sway things to Harri’s advantage, to temper any volatile decisions made under the haze of anger? Severus forced himself to continue to write, the nib a slow drag across the parchment— the scrawled penmanship was becoming more and more illegible.

“I see,” Severus fought to maintain the monotonous tone as he dipped the quill into the inkwell.

A pause in their conversation as Draco looked on with thinly-veiled incredulity. Pale eyes darted over the bowed form of his godfather, trying to discern whether or not the man was being sincere in his reaction. They both knew full and well that there was no way Harri would ever be in support of the motion— not considering the extent of her social circle or her own morals. And the fact her name, her very _signature_ , had appeared on the proposal could only mean one thing. His jaw tensed.

“You know as well as I do that Harri would never willingly sign it,” Draco forced out through gritted teeth, “He forged her signature.”

His fingers curled into the desk, “He has even forbidden that anyone, namely myself, mentions it to her.”

“If that is the Dark Lord’s will, it is best to follow it,” Snape said.

“It’s ludicrous!” Draco’s voice had pitched in his discontentment, “He must be completely mad to think she’ll be okay with this! Or, you know, think he can hide it from her! Not to mention what he’s doing is illegal and—.”

“Draco!” the headmaster admonished sharply, head snapping up in alarm.

Coal eyes narrowed a fraction and thin lips pressed into a grim line. While he could understand the boy’s anger, the upset on the behalf of someone close to him, being this free with such dangerous opinions could only prove to be catastrophic. Far too many times had Severus witnessed another’s punishment for lesser offenses— and things were already disturbingly tense between the Malfoy heir and the Dark Lord, their point of contention clear enough. Not for the first time did he curse Narcissa for refusing to heed his advice, to send her son away at the first sign of conflicting interest. And while Draco may have turned 17, his maturity was still that of a teenager— and teenagers, particularly teenage boys, never proved to be the most rational. Add a girl into the unstable mix, especially a girl like a certain redhead, and it was assuredly detrimental. Calamitous— he, of all people, knew from firsthand experience how it was. The blight of youth. It was almost enough to drive him to drink whenever he thought of it. And how vainly did Severus wish for a different reality, one wherein his godson remained ignorant, had continued to labour under the illusion of false hatred towards her— it would certainly have made both of their lives easier. An exasperated sigh, fingers tightly pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the impending headache.

“As your godfather, I can only advise that you keep such ill comments regarding the Dark Lord’s behaviour to yourself,” Snape supplied pointedly as he returned the quill to its stand, “As for the legality behind his actions, need I also remind you who now determines what falls into that category? Or, for a different matter, who is her formal guardian?”

“He is _using_ her and she’s completely oblivious to it! Merlin only knows he keeps her locked away as it is. Harri needs to know what’s happening—.”

“Our Lord is acting within perfectly legal bounds.”

“But—.”

“As his ward, he has the authourity to act on her behalf. That includes making decisions for her and using her name however he wishes, so long as she remains under age. It is no different from your own parents',” Snape interjected with a sense of finality.

Severus rose from the high-backed chair and rounded the desk. A pale hand, its fingers long and palm slender, found purchase on Draco’s shoulder— the slightest of a squeeze, the touch fleeting, ghostlike. An unspoken acknowledgement of the similarities in their feelings, a nonverbal reassurance that he understood. Then it dropped away just as quickly— a hasty retreat.

“If you are looking for my counsel, Draco,” he muttered, gathering up the sheaves of parchment, “Heed the Dark Lord’s instructions and consider the consequences if you informed Harri. What would you have her do given her current situation?”

“To— Maybe— I don’t know. Do something,” Draco admitted, “The Potter I knew wouldn’t stand for any of this!”

“Exactly, Draco. The Potter you _knew_ ,” Snape said.

Deftly rolling up the ledgers and securing them with ribbons, the potions master sent them sailing across the room with a flick of his wand. The scrolls slotted themselves into the built-in shelving, a honeycomb structure where records of years long since passed were kept. Dark eyes watched as they settled into their final resting places, the most minute of a twitch in the corners of his mouth. Truly, he could understand his godson. The fear it was to watch a man with too much power manipulate and twist everything to his advantage— the discomforting revelation that no one was spared. Including the defiant Harri Potter. A girl who actively denied Fate at every turn, who rebelled in unyielding mutiny against the injustices of the world as easily as breathing. And yet, here she was— seemingly brought to heel without even fully knowing it and made to support one of the greatest possible inequities. It made one question their own position in turn— how often were they, themselves, a product of unwitting manipulation? How often had they been poised and propped up as actors on someone else’s stage, completely unaware of such?

“Consider her circumstances. It is as you said— she is locked away, her contact with the outside world kept minimal, and is refused a wand. Not to mention the Dark Lord is keeping an even closer watch on her after the Grimmauld incident. If you did tell her, what is she supposed to do with that information?” Severus explained, voice low and even.

“What Harri needs at the moment is to adapt. The Dark Lord clearly has expectations of her now, ones that she will be wholly unsuited to face. If you want to help, then assist her in that regard. Focus on being productive rather than needlessly adding kindling to the fire,” the headmaster added with a pointed arch of his brow.

Severus took in the boy’s darkening expression, the jump in the muscle above his right brow— the telltale sign that he was about to stubbornly argue. It was a dreadful habit of his godson, one formed when he had been barely out of leading strings. Thankfully, Severus had 16— ‘17 now,’ he corrected himself— years of practice on diverting the impending tantrum before it could break the surface. He returned back behind the desk, an arcing sweep of the black wand— the remaining papers organised themselves into neat piles.

“Rather than worrying about Harri, you should be more concerned with yourself. You were tasked with a mission, were you not?” 

“I was,” Draco muttered, albeit a bit reluctantly.

“And?” Snape prompted when it was evident the boy wasn’t going to be forthcoming with the details of his own volition.

“They’ve given me their written pledges to take the Mark before the summer’s end. I’ve already sent the oaths to my father. It wasn’t easy to convince them, especially Blaise, but they eventually came around.”

“Well done.”

“Though, honestly, I don’t see the point in recruiting any of them while they are still students. Theo’s father is already high enough in the ranks— it’s only a matter of time before he joins after graduation. It just seems impractical to rush—.”

“I believe, Draco,” Snape sent a sharp look his godson’s way, “It would be prudent for you to hurry along. You wouldn’t want to miss the train, now would you?”

It wasn’t until the boy had left that Severus allowed the mask to slip— for the frown he had been fighting back to flourish and for the lines etched into his forehead to deepen their creases. There was an ominous understanding, a disquieting thought, that was a storm was, indeed, beginning to brew— and he only prayed that his mettle was enough to weather it out.

* * *

* * *

The more Draco reflected on it, the clearer it was becoming as to why Harri’s particular situation was upsetting— it was one he was entirely too familiar with. The life of an heir to a house as ancient as Malfoy, a line extending back to the year 1066 and the height of the Norman conquest, was one of orchestration. Of a never-ending symphony, his part, though small in the grand picture, crucial in keeping the melody intact. Fluid. It was a life of posing and of being swept away by the crescendo that dictated the rules of high society— of acquiescing, entirely unable to fight against it. Not if he wanted to avoid the frigidness that was his father’s disapproval— the ensuing heavy, viselike touches that silently warned him to behave. Or, far worse in his opinion, the paralysing disappointment of his mother— that tightness in the corners of her mouth, the spark of unease in her eyes whenever she considered the implications of her son’s actions upon himself, on their family. And as the only child, his burdens were tenfold without the support of siblings to divvy it up— it was solely up to him to advance the Malfoy prestige, to maintain the status quo that had endured for centuries. It was as Severus had pointed out— his parents practically owned him. His voice, his rights, his everything— and now Harri was in a similar position.

Draco sharply turned the corner, the crook of his index finger yanking free the knot in his uniform’s tie— considering most of the castle had been abandoned, such a slip in propriety could be allowed. The hurried footfalls echoed off the stone, the reverberation dulled— a testament to how insignificant he was when compared to the atavistic might of the vaulted halls. In the distance, there was a faint swell of chatter carried on by the breeze. Yet, the more he focussed on it, on picking out the individual pitches, the more it blurred into a wall of white noise.

Yes, his life was outlined by demands— if asked to smile, he did so. If asked to charm for the betterment of his family, be it acquaintance or adversary, it was done without complaint— nevermind his own personal feelings. It was how they all operated— himself, his friends, the upper-class echelon. But Harri? She was different. A rarity. Despite her respectable lineage, of possessing a station most would gluttonously covet, she was an anomaly that didn’t buy into their rules. The girl existed far beyond the ordered world of aristocracy and privilege, working to defy the principles and precepts at every opportunity. Whereas he was a mere planet stuck on the same orbital path, unable to stray by inherent nature, she was an entirely different entity— she was her own sun. Harri was free, untethered. That spark of rebellion he so admired, so craved, so wished to emulate— his very own antithesis. Even their rivalry, formed by one-sided jealous admiration, had been freeing, all pretenses dropped during their bickering. He was always allowed to be _himself_ around her— not Heir Malfoy but simply plain Draco.

Another sharp left and he was hurrying down the wide steps, the staircases still for once. The portraits lining the gallery walls were mostly emptied, their occupants deciding to take up residency elsewhere for the summer. It was painfully silent without their incessant chattering. 

Perhaps though the biggest objection to the Dark Lord involving Harri in his schemes was that Draco knew her. He had been privy to her wishes, her hopes and dreams, to the inner-workings of her psyche— he knew of her truest desires and now had to carry the damning knowledge with him that they would never be attained. Too many lazy afternoons between them had been passed lakeside. It was there, tucked into the inlet, the lull of water lapping against the pebble-lined banks and the warmth of autumn sunshine upon their skin, that they had discussed their dreams for the future. Hers was fairly simple— one might call it boring. Without fail, Harri always wistfully mentioned going off the grid. Of carrying out an uncomplicated life, one removed from the toxicity of fame and that could afford her anonymity— one where she was merely just ‘Harri’. Of course, given her status, her history, her everything, it seemed nigh on impossible. But even now, Draco could envision how those impossibly green eyes sparkled, how animated they were as she painted the quaintest possible life— one involving a seaside cottage, the imagined days filled with beachcombing and toes buried in dampened sand. It was a life he had never personally entertained— but when she had turned to him, seeking his agreement as to how lovely it sounded, Draco found himself to be a believer in that moment. That he, too, wanted that sort of life more than anything else in this world— that he would be the one to give her it, and, perhaps, just maybe, live it alongside her. They had even gotten so far as discussing what colour the walls might be— “Anything but pink,” she had said— how many rooms it would have.

But now the possibility for such was shattered. A childish illusion dismantled.

The doors to the Great Hall had been closed as he passed them, fingers raking through his unstyled hair. There were a few pockets of students lingering in the cobblestone courtyard, their whispers bordering on the obnoxious as they begged one another to write during their vacations. Pale eyes flickered over to them, a lurch in his stomach at how normal the scene appeared— as though it was just another year. Another boring, ordinary school year coming to a close— how he envied their ability to play pretend. ‘Ignorance is bliss,’ a distant thought, attention unwillingly drifting to the shadowed corner of the square. That lurching sensation gave way to a knot, an uncomfortable lump felt all the way to the back of his throat.

He should have done more for her that night. Should have hid her, concealed her, apparated her away on the spot— perhaps to that imagined cottage she always talked about. Yet, instead, he had made the fatal error of letting her go, of underestimating the Dark Lord’s tenacity. Now look at her— she was facing the threat of being pulled into the same gravitational well alongside everyone else. Her dreams, the ones shared in private, were falling apart at the seams, her freedoms increasingly limited. And Draco felt the nagging sensation that he held most of the blame, that he was accountable in more ways than one.

“—co!”

What had these past few months been like for her? Was she well? Healthy? His letters, numerous as they were, remained unanswered— not a single reply or indication that they had even been received by their intended recipient to begin with. The last time Draco laid eyes on her, she had been covered in questionable bruises, a parting plea on her lips for him to seek out her friends. How many more would be painted across her skin now? And though he despised the idea of letting her down yet again, of explaining his failure in finding Granger or Weasley, it was the fear of what would be awaiting him that spurred him on. His strides lengthened, a quickened march.

“—raco! Hey!”

Hurried steps behind him, the sound sporadic as they fell onto the uneven alignment of the cobblestone path. It wasn’t until a hand had clamped around his wrist, yanking him insistently to a stop, that Draco even registered someone had been trailing him. He faltered, a retort bright on his tongue that he was coming— that they should have waited on the train in their usual spot like instructed. However, rather than a familiar face, it was a stranger who greeted him.

Pale eyes narrowed as he sought to place a name to the girl— and to understand why, of all things, she was acting so familiar towards him. Her brassy blonde curls were secured by a pink ribbon, a matching flush on her cheeks. ‘She was running after me?’ a perplexing thought, his attention shifting past her shoulder and to the castle in the distance. Admittedly, the girl was attractive enough— and his mind jumped to the assumption of this being a last-ditch attempt at a confession. He held back a derisive scoff— those had been coming in scores as of late, a flattery quickly turned annoyance. The boy pried himself free of her grasp after a moment of prolonged contact, his brow arching disdainfully as she tripped over an apology.

“I’m sorry, uhm— I’m Lavender. Lavender Brown,” she explained quickly, hand dropping to her side.

‘Lavender Brown?’ The name rang very faint bells— a memory of walking on the edges of the forest, shoulders bumping as Harri complained about her roommate’s latest romantic endeavour. His retort as to why anyone would name their child after a plant or, even worse, two colours— her good-natured snort, a fistful of leaves tossed his way. ‘Ah, that’s where.’ But why was she seeking him out now? Draco looked further down the trail, the platform a little ways off. An itch of impatience, hands finding purchase in the pockets of his trousers.

“Ah. Do you mind?” he tilted his chin towards the winding path, already beginning to resume his previous pace— albeit a touch slower, “I would prefer not to miss the train.”

“O-oh yeah, of course,” she nodded, jogging slightly to keep up.

The brief silence between them was only temporary.

“Say, uhm, how’s Harri doing?” Lavender asked, fingers tightening around the drawstring bag in her left hand.

His jaw tensed though his voice remained flat, neutral, “Fine.”

“So you do see her!” she exclaimed cheerfully. 

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I was so worried, you know! She hasn’t answered any of my letters. And when she and Hermione both disappeared after the break, I thought the worst— especially with that nasty raid business. Though, at least Hermione wrote back. Something about going home on excused leave— muggle issues, she said. But Harri, well. She gets to be a bit reckless, you know— and no letter! No explanation! But when I saw her in the _Prophet_ , next to His Majesty to top it off, I couldn’t believe it! Lucky girl, that one.”

Draco spared a sidelong glance towards her, briefly wondering if she was always this talkative— especially to strangers. Especially to strangers that so happened to be Slytherins. Wasn’t she aware of how they tended to be gossip mongers— that information held far more value in their circles than gold? He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her ignorance, the scarlet train materialising before them. The platform was deserted, most already comfortably seated and deeply engrossed in discussion of their impending vacation plans— the first warning whistle pierced the air.

“What do you want, Brown?” he finally asked, deciding it was best to cut to the chase.

“R-right! Well, Harri left this and never came back for it,” Lavender held out the drawstring bag to the boy, “I was wondering if you could give it to her? It’s probably terribly important— she always keeps it under her bed for whatever reason.”

He took the ratty backpack from her gingerly, eyeing it with a mixture of curiosity and repulsion, “Of course.”

The Malfoy heir spun on his heels, already marching towards the last compartment’s railing where he knew his own people were waiting. Lavender called after him, her voice rising in competition with another whistle.

“And tell Harri that I miss her! It’s not the same here without her!”

Gripping the iron railing, knuckles bleeding white from the pressure, Draco hoisted himself up onto the train. And as he slipped past the door, avoiding the bustle of students swarming to their seats, he found himself wholeheartedly agreeing with the ringing words.

* * *

* * *

In retrospect, many would be inclined to agree with the assessment of one Miss Lavender Brown. The absence of a certain redhead was noted across several lives— but none more so than in a cottage tucked away in the rolling hills of the English countryside. Behind its age-worn bricks and thatched roofing, one of its faces overtaken by an untamed spray of ivy, was a pair of unlikely friends. Back in their glory days, the days in which things had been right, happy, they were once a trio— a rowdy group that sowed the best sort of chaos in their wake. And while the brain and the heart still remained united, a vital piece was now missing— the spirit. And without the spirit, the very soul, what was the body but a mere husk? Yes, out of everyone, it was Hermione and Ron that knew what ‘missing’ and ‘it’s not the same’ meant most intimately.

It was a fact Hermione found herself pondering on more than one instance— usually at night. During those long stretches when silence would descend, she would lay awake and think. Think back to their past adventures and the ensuing detentions. Think back to that blinding smile and heartfelt conversations held under a willow tree. Think back to the parties, the quidditch matches, the study sessions. And, sometimes, when that hollowness would grow and grow, would gnaw at her chest until her breath was stolen away, she would reach out. A searching hand in the darkness, a foolish hope to feel the brush of a familiar palm— to find a body curled up next to hers like it so often had in the past 6 years. A vain hunt for a phantom limb long since severed. It was never found. And though she hadn't asked Ron about it, an unspoken rule between them that acknowledging Harri’s absence was forbidden, she knew the boy felt it too. That those bright blue eyes of his were as haunted as her own— that he sometimes heard the same ghostly laugh, saw the same glimpses of a redheaded spectre. 8.5 months. 37 weeks. 259 days. 6,216 hours. 372,960 minutes— not that she was keeping track, of course. But how terribly long was a mere almost 9 months to be wondering if someone was still alive or dead in an unmarked grave.

The dutiful ticking of the wall’s clock drew her from the novel in her lap, the gold lettering on ‘Anna’ and the ‘r’ in ‘Karenina’ finally flaking off. ‘372,961,’ she noted, turning a dog-eared page absentmindedly. Truthfully, she had long since lost her place, the prose of Tolstoy a jumbled, rambling mess at this point. Her mind, though as much as it loved being consumed by the world of fiction, was otherwise distracted. ‘372,962.’ 

“Well, Mum’s done it again.”

Hermione jolted in the window seat. It was a dreadful habit nursed by the past few months, her nerves unbearably strung— Ron tossed her a sheepish, apologetic smile. In his hands was a plate piled with scones, the sugar crust missing from the top— ‘Red currants this time.’ The beginnings of a frown, she closed the book and drew her knees up so the boy could join her in the alcove.

“She’s baking again?” Hermione asked as she plucked one of the pastries from the top.

“Mhm,” a muffled reply as he took a bite of his own.

After the Hog’s Head ambush, and the resulting capture of her daughter, Mrs. Weasley had taken up baking to cope— to an excessive degree, that is. For the entire month, and then some, the woman had the ovens going nonstop, a nervous energy clinging to her rounded silhouette as she flitted about. The amount of times one of them had to dash down to the shops for more flour or sugar was unfathomable at this point— not that anyone dared to complain. It was far preferable this way, her being occupied in the kitchens rather than openly weeping— especially when compared to the sounds that had filled their tight living quarters during that first week. At least now her distress was reserved for the nighttime, just like everyone else’s. A dry bite and she broke the scone in half, idly plucking out the bits of dried fruit.

“How’s the hand?” Ron gestured with a tilt of his chin.

Amber eyes drifted down to the hand in question. It was resting limply on her thigh, a rising bitterness at the back of her throat. While Hermione knew she should consider herself lucky, seeing as how many had been gravely injured— or killed— in the attack, it was difficult to feel anything remotely like relief. Like gratefulness. Without the intervention of a licensed mediwitch, a trip to the hospital posing too many dangers for exposure, it had to be healed to the best of their abilities. Yet despite the cleanly snapped fractures having been righted, there was a persistent stiffness in the joints, an unwillingness to bend. And sometimes there would be a dulled pain, a throbbing she couldn’t quite pinpoint its origins. But the truest reason for her resentful misery was that it had been her wand hand. Relearning everything with her left was marked by insufferably slow progress, her reflexes sluggish and movements unrefined. 

“Oh. It’s—,” Hermione began, rigid fingers spasming, mouth pressing into a tight line, “Fine.”

She hid the hand under the novel, “Where are the twins?”

“With Sirius, working on the plan,” Ron’s leg bounced restlessly against the ground, “They think they can improve Gregorovitch’s formula. Something about adding in an Erumpent horn.”

A drawn-out lull in their conversation, the pair busying themselves with the thankless task of chewing. Neither were particularly hungry, nor could they claim to enjoy the bland pastries, but at least it was _something_ to do— something that didn’t require the effort of talking. In the back of the house, there was a crash— a mixing bowl falling to the ground, a rattling as it spun on its axis before settling with a final clang. A brief cry followed, the sound caught between upset and frustration— entirely too relatable.

“She says she’s fine,” Ron mumbled, gaze trained on the study’s open door, “But Mum’s never been a good liar, you know?”

Hermione traced over his turned profile, the crease between his brows, the slightest flare of his nostrils— that misty, far-off look that was starting to cloud his eyes. It was a face she had seen him make countless times in the past month alone, the one he refused to wear in front of the adults. In front of his parents, his brothers. The face that broadcasted his hurt so plainly that her own heart squeezed uncomfortably in turn. Gently prying the plate from his lax hold, she relocated it to the side table and, unthinkingly, reached for him instead— a familiar routine. Though they had become increasingly less affectionate throughout the years, the heightened awareness that accompanied puberty making it otherwise awkward, such decorum was now easily dismissed. Fitting, all things considered, as they only had the other to lean on now.

A stubborn, though gentle, tug and she guided Ron’s head to rest in the crook of her shoulder. He didn’t fight it. Rather, the boy had gone boneless, let himself be manoeuvred and cajoled by the lethargic beating of her pulse. A steady rhythm, the upticks strong and the downbeats mellow. The good hand of hers rose to card through the wild crown of his hair, the colour reminding her of warmth, of a summer’s sunset— a comforting sort of hue.

“I should have done something,” his words were hollowed, emptied, “I should have helped her. But I didn’t. I just— I sat there.”

“Ron—.”

“I let him take her. I let him take Gin and who bloody knows what’s happening to her now.”

“Ron, there wasn’t much you could have done,” Hermione angled for reason, chin resting atop his head, “If you had moved, you would’ve been splinched. And that wouldn’t have helped anyone or changed anything.”

“She has to be alright, ‘Mione.”

Quiet settled in the wake of his response— the tacky feeling of something wet seeping into the neckline of her sweater. Hermione didn’t mention it, an arm wrapping about his shoulders and pulling him in closer. Fingers carried on running through his hair— an illusion of ignorance to the tears, a false construction of privacy as she shielded him from the world.

“I know, I know,” she muttered, “And she will be. We just have to believe that. Plus, we know Harri. If— No. Harri definitely won’t let anything happen to her.”

“Our plan will work and we’ll get them back. Both of them,” amber eyes slid to the wall clock, “I promise.” 

‘372,982.’

* * *

* * *

Time was moving unbearably slow, a sluggish crawl that seemed less than inclined to hurry its pace for anyone— least of all Harri. Stuck in the perpetual purgatory of the dress fitting, she distantly wondered if they were always this torturous or if that was just her luck. Either way, it was an entirely different kind of torment, an agony that she was ill-suited to endure. Raising the rim of the teacup to her lips, she took a slow, contemplative sip— a discreet attempt to study the woman seated to her left.

Madam Malkin could best be described as a stout and portly kind of woman. There wasn’t any debate as to whether or not she had once been beautiful in her youth, her lined face too homely and plain to ever be considered anything truly remarkable. She was short, even in comparison to Harri— a fact the girl secretly took immense delight in— but there was a welcoming air about her. The kind one might expect from a grandmother— though, referring to her as ‘matronly’ would be an unthinkable disservice. Where she lacked in natural beauty, the tailor made up tenfold everywhere else. The light mauve suit, outfitted as a blazer and pencil skirt, had been fashionably tailored to her plump form, the white-gold buttons just flashy enough without being overly ostentatious. Her tea heels, a modest height, manicured nails, cat-eyed glasses, and lips all donned the same shade of burgundy— a bold, yet respectable, choice. And her hair, snow-white in colour, was swept back into a modest chignon that rested at her nape. All in all, Malkin cut a commanding figure, one that entirely befitted a woman who dominated the fashion world, her gaze shrewd and lips permanently fixed into a half-smile.

Though, much to Harri’s unbridled horror, the seamstress was also extremely talkative. And as she sat there, demurely dismantling her tea cake with a polished fork, it was becoming increasingly clear that she was infringing upon unknown territory. Currently, the women were cloistered away in the ‘Lilac Room’, adequately named for its palette of dusky purples, creams, and powder blues. The hostess, one Narcissa Malfoy, was eagerly chatting away with their guest, plying her with a constant stream of tea and endless cakes in exchange for interesting, albeit scandalous, tidbits. And though she may be dressed like one of them, her own outfit the height of vogue with its floor-length silk and flowing sleeves, Harri felt like an imposter. An outsider looking in. Their refined mannerisms, the knowledge of the inner-workings of the aristocracy— it was all lost upon her. And while, admittedly, ‘girl talk’ hadn’t ever been her strongest suit, her interests or pressing concerns usually unaligned with other teenage girls, it was startling to realise that the topics didn’t really change even amongst grown women. Gossip was at the heart, sly quips about who wore what or who was seen dancing together at the last soiree. Just as it had been in the common room, Harri was left out of the loop.

“And then she ran away! _Eloped_ ,” Malkin confided in a whisper, “Right after I finished the dress, to top it all off. Beautiful thing it was, truly, but that poor girl! I can’t fully fault her. After all, Mason Tremblay isn’t the brightest nor best looking.”

“But to elope! If my child ever saw fit to subject me to such humiliation, I believe I would meet my end prematurely,” Narcissa remarked in turn.

“Speaking of your child, I overheard something rather interesting the other day. Do you know who came into the shop?”

Narcissa arched a brow and placed a sugar-crusted scone onto the tailor’s plate, “Oh?”

“Victoria Parkinson!”

“Did she now?”

“Oh yes, and, apparently, she is looking to marry off her daughter right quick— you know Victoria. Forever the social climber, that one. But I do believe there was mention of your son being a potential in-law? She seemed rather confident on the match.”

Harri choked. She had just taken a bite of the raspberry spongecake when Malkin had let slip that lovely little piece of news— tears sprung to the corners of her eyes as she coughed vainly to clear her throat. Concerned twin looks fixed on her as she reached for the cup of jasmine, downing it with abandon. ‘Draco and Pansy? _Together_?’ It was difficult to imagine, despite how close the two had been at Hogwarts. For one, Draco had proclaimed his resolution, rather fervently she might add, time and time again to remain merely friends with the girl. And, for another, though Harri was unable to say she was privy to Pansy’s feelings, it felt remiss all the same to be discussing her in the context as mere chattel. Not to mention both parties were still in school— so why was marriage even being entertained? Was this a normal thing by pureblood standards? It made her head spin.

Narcissa extended a napkin to the coughing girl and quickly poured another serving from the teapot into the drained cup. Gently sliding the saucer back to Harri, a painted mouth thinned as she placed a cube of sugar into her own.

“Where Victoria even found the nerve to suggest something so preposterous, I haven’t the faintest idea. However, I would sooner give up the château in Paris than allow my son to marry into that family,” Narcissa replied curtly with the slightest sniff of her nose, “And if you must know, we are not currently considering any marriage propositions for Draco. My husband and I decided it would be best to allow him to focus on his studies for the moment.”

Malkin sat there, grey eyes drinking in the scene from behind cat-eyed glasses. It was certainly an interesting juxtaposition, to say the very least. The tenderness Narcissa so blatantly held for the redheaded girl set against the outright disdain for the alluded to Miss Parkinson— not to mention the fact that Harri Potter had apparently taken up a seemingly permanent residence at Malfoy Manor. One really couldn’t help but ponder the implications behind such things. A sly smile, a slow unfurling on burgundy lips, her keen gaze sliding purposefully between the two witches.

“Well, that is unfortunate, considering how handsome young Draco is. If you do happen to find a suitable bride, however, do let me know. I would be more than happy to design her gown,” Malkin said.

A suspended quiet, strained and weighty, fell over the parlour. Harri took the opportunity to finish her tea, eyes flickering restlessly about the room— anything to avoid looking at the women flanking her sides. The tension between them was a spark, an unspoken challenge for the other to rise to the bait— to let something slip that most definitely shouldn’t. And seeing as how the tailor had just spent the past few hours prattling on about matters best kept private, it wasn’t difficult to hazard that any and all secrets spilled to her didn’t remain guarded for long. Peeking up through her lashes, Harri noted the rigidity of Narcissa— her carmine lips were stretched in an effort to maintain a polite smile. Her eyes, however, were stormy. Malkin, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the subtle current of enmity, too busy browsing the selection of petit fours— that or she, simply, did not care. Harri stamped down the urge to flee.

“Perhaps,” Narcissa said slowly, a well-mannered tilt of her chin towards the platform in the middle of the room, “We should get on with the fitting. I know you must have a rather busy schedule, Madam Malkin, and I would hate to take up any more of your time.”

A click of a tongue and a flurry of mauve fabric, “Oh, nonsense! I do quite enjoy our visits, Mrs. Malfoy. Come, my dear. Up, up, up.”

And then Harri was being ushered towards the low dais, stumbling on uncertain legs as firm hands pushed between her shoulders. Freestanding mirrors had been placed in a half-circle about the constructed platform, positioned just right so every angle was reflected off the other— she blinked and a jarring kaleidoscope of emerald green eyes followed in a delay. ‘What?’ An apprehensive tilt of her head and there it was again— the likeness was lagging. Malkin appeared behind her with a knowing smile, waving nonchalantly in demonstration.

“Recording mirrors,” she explained with a wink, “For designing. They help me to visualise and tailor everything to my client’s specifications. Though, I assure you, they remain completely private! And they automatically wipe themselves clean after the dress is finished.”

Malkin had given two claps of her hands in rapid succession— the golden bracelets about her wrists suddenly started to glow. Lifting up into the air, the metal stretched and elongated with fluid ease— Harri looked on in awe as the jewellery became transfigured into tape measurers. They writhed in the air, sentient beings that curled playfully about the tailor’s plump form in wait of their next commands.

“His Majesty tried to argue that there was no need to retake your measurements but I think otherwise. After all, you are a growing young lady! And I just couldn’t stand for any discrepancies. You know how these things go, don’t you, Narcissa dear?” Malkin spared a glance over her shoulder before turning back to Harri, “Now, if you please.”

Harri followed the pointed glance down to the sash holding her dress closed, brows lifting ever so slightly at the implication. However, when she went to confirm her suspicions, it was to see neither woman being particularly nonplussed by the request. The Malfoy matriarch was consumed by folding and refolding a linen napkin to her liking whereas Malkin was shuffling through her sewing bag with a tuneless hum. ‘For placing so much emphasis on what’s proper,’ she thought, caught somewhere between bafflement and amusement, ‘They really don’t seem to mind nudity.’ And how true that was— after all, how many times had Narcissa insisted on bathing her, much to her immense chagrin, or helped her dress in the morning? ‘But yet, wearing a jumper with holes in it is a mortal sin.’ A scoff as deft fingers undid the waist tie, the dove grey silk pooling at her feet.

A nervous look was spared towards the mirrors. Harri did her best to find comfort in the tailor’s assurance that whatever they captured would be eventually deleted, that it would remain private. Her weight shifted— the refracted image of a girl with too-bright eyes and too-sharp shoulders and too-long legs lagged in pursuit. It was jarring to look upon a full-body image of herself, the instances in which she could do so few— partially because she did, admittedly, exert effort in avoidance of such. And yet, the girl couldn’t fully stop herself from critically studying the mirrors, a morbid curiosity spurred on by the minute changes. Though one might be inclined to claim she never looked healthier, having been afforded a life of luxury and care that did miracles to her once gaunt frame, it was a difficult thing to comprehend that it was her own likeness staring back. This version seemed off. Strange. The original Harri Potter was marked by a smattering of bruises and scuffed knees, tissue-deep scars and dried sprays of blood— they were her warpaint, her armour, her physical trophies of battles fought and won. It was why whenever someone suggested she was an identical copy of her mother, she would inwardly deny it— though she may have her colouration, Lily had been more genteel. Ladylike, elegant. That, in all actuality, she embodied James more— was as rough and scrappy and battle-hewn as her father had been. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy realised long before she could even speak or walk. Her legacy was meant to be gritty. She was named after rulers, kings, emperors— a far cry from the flower tradition that her mother and aunt had demanded. And truly, she had no qualms about the fact. It might even be more accurate to say Harri welcomed it, revelled even.

Yet, this rendition was the furthest thing from that ideal. The scars had been erased, the scuffed knees healed, the blood and grime sloughed and scrubbed away until all that remained was unblemished skin. Her armour was stripped, the helm of her legacy dismantled. And as she stared at the forest green satin of her underwear, the delicate lace set against the swell of her chest and the slope of her hips, she thought of leaves— that, against all odds, she had been transformed into the flower the women in her family were always destined to become.

The introspective reverie was broken as the golden measurer wrapped tightly about the peak of her bust, a strangled noise in her throat at the unexpected constriction. And then it released her, flying back to the open, waiting palm of its master.

“Aha! I knew it— 3.5 more inches!” Malkin exclaimed, clicking her tongue disapprovingly, “And His Majesty didn’t want me to retake your measurements. Do you know how disastrous this would have been if I made his design based on your old size? Men, I swear.”

Harri glanced over her shoulder, eyes widening marginally as she tripped over the words, “Uhm, I— ' _his_ design’?”

“Mhm,” Malkin hummed, jotting down the new number with a quick notes quill, “Oh yes, he was very insistent with his vision. Of course, I am making some minor alterations here and there to it.”

“But I will say, it is rare indeed to find a man with such artistic insight,” the tailor added shrewdly.

The measuring tape was joined by its twin, both wrapping about Harri’s upper-arms and lighting up pink at the appropriate tick. Truthfully, she was dumbstruck. For some reason, knowing that Voldemort had been personally involved in the process was both utterly horrifying and riotously comical. The latter for it meant the Dark Lord had spent his free time drafting up gown designs in his study, weighing the pros and cons to each style of neckline or sleeve. But moreso the former because she was all too aware of his predilections— and judging by her current wardrobe, namely the drawers of underwear, it was a catastrophe in the making. Already her mind, seeing fit to torture her, was conjuring up images of dresses hardly suitable for polite company, ones that she would rather bite her own tongue than be caught wearing— ‘It would be just like him too, the bloody sadist.’ Warmth crept over her cheeks as she cleared her throat with some difficulty.

“O-oh, I see. Uhm, would it be at all possible to see the sketches? Just out of curiosity,” Harri asked— ‘So I can decide whether to strangle him or not’ was left unspoken.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” the tailor narrowed her eyes in busy deliberation of the measurer’s accuracy, “He was very resolute on it remaining a surprise.”

Burgundy lips quirked into a smile upon seeing the girl’s uneasy expression, “But worry not. As I said, his tastes are impeccable and you will look absolutely divine.”

Harri glanced helplessly towards Narcissa, the matriarch occupied with reading a leather-bound novel. She willed the woman to look up, to interject on her behalf— to use that commanding voice dripping with graceful authourity to sway Madam Malkin into breaking. However, she did no such thing. The tailor returned to the sewing bag, pulling out swatches of fabrics and laces, an energetic glow about the rounded lines of her body. And try as Harri did to have the same confidence in the Dark Lord’s ‘tastes’, she found herself entirely unable to. Surprises, as backed by her past experiences, rarely turned out to be positive— and that held especially true when a certain red-eyed man was at their centre. Not to mention that ‘looking divine’ had been the furthest thing from her ongoing list of concerns— but now, however, it was quickly soaring to the top. Hell, she would settle for ‘acceptable’ if it meant wearing a dress that leaned safely towards the conservative side of things.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your work, Madam Malkin,” Harri grappled for reason, “But surely one of my other dresses would do? I mean, I have so many and—.”

“Absolutely not!” both Narcissa and Malkin had chimed in at the same time, the book snapping closed and the tailor spinning around in alarm.

“Oh, honestly, Harri,” Narcissa had given a dismissive shake of her head, elegant curls swaying with the motion.

“How do I explain this,” Malkin muttered, snapping her fingers impatiently as though trying to think of the proper phrase, “A witch has only two very important milestones in her life— her 17th debut and her wedding. Simply put, she doesn’t wear anything ordinary or something another person may already have. No, it’s _de rigueur_ to have something entirely new made for these moments, do you understand? After all, this is her chance to shine!”

Narcissa nodded sagely, setting down her novel on the tea table to agree— and Harri was left dumbstruck by the passion the two witches held for a simple dress, of all things. Because, in her mind, it was just that— a _dress_. Though, in all fairness, most of what pureblooded women put stock into went over her head.

“Do have some faith, dear,” the tailor implored, “Trust in the process.”

And then before more could be said on the matter, a flurry of swatches were being held against her skin. A rainbow and an assortment of patterns— brocades, silks, chiffons, satins. Harri, wisely, decided to concede and keep her mouth shut during the process for fear of accidentally setting the women off again— a tactical move on her end to pick her battles. Every once and a while there would be a chime from Narcissa that a certain shade looked especially pleasing or a texture looked, to quote, ‘decadent’. In Harri’s own discerning eye, they truthfully all looked the same— ‘eggshell’ or ‘ivory’, ‘navy’ or ‘sapphire’, it was ludicrous to give such similar colours completely different names. And yet, the two older witches were able to make the distinction with an impressive, and terrifying, degree of speed and accuracy. She tried her best to hold back a yawn, an ache in the arches of her feet making itself known from standing for so long.

The baroque clock on the mantel ticked on.

At some point, Narcissa had risen from her seat and brought with her a blush pink saucer— it was handed to the tailor in exchange for the notebook the quick notes quill had been furiously scribbling in. Pale eyes flickered across the cursive scrawl, a contented noise of approval under her breath.

“How has your shop been doing as of late, Madam Malkin? Busy, I trust?” Narcissa asked, a manicured nail tapping on the list and muttering out a quick, “This one looked especially becoming on her.”

“Indeed,” the tailor sipped her tea as the quill underlined the choice, “After Miss Potter appeared on the front page of the _Prophet_ wearing that little number— you know, the black dress with the scales— I have been bogged down with commissions. I’m even getting requests from overseas! Imagine that. I’ve actually been giving some thought on opening another shop in Paris.”

“Though, I must admit I am rather disappointed with the lack of courting proposals. I was so certain that after that article, they would’ve come flooding in,” Malkin sighed sympathetically and tilted her teacup towards Harri, “But no matter. With your looks and reputation, I am willing to place money that they will come in droves after your debut.”

“Well now, that would be a fool’s bet, Malkin,” Narcissa commented idly, passing the pocketbook back to the stout woman, “Seeing as she already has had multiple propositions.”

Harri stiffened, green eyes widening to a doe-ish degree. It took a beat for her mind to sluggishly process what ‘propositions’ entailed, a stricken look twisting on her face once it sunk in. There were people out there, _real people_ , that had actually requested permission to court her. _Her_. There was a choking sound in the back of her throat, a wheezing inhale as a half-realised breath was prematurely swallowed. She spun on the dais in alarm.

“Wait—what?! But Vol—,” she spluttered.

“ _His Majesty_ ,” Narcissa quickly interjected, a stern look aimed towards Harri, “Has been personally handling any and all requests regarding the matter.”

“As his ward, he is taking Miss Potter’s future quite seriously, I assure you,” the Malfoy matriarch added for the benefit of the seamstress.

She had barely heard the tittering excitement of Malkin, the keen whispers seeking to pry some names— the polite refusal on Narcissa’s end to divulge any further information. Rather, Harri’s thoughts had wandered, entirely too occupied with trying to understand why none of this had been mentioned to her before. After all, it seemed like a rather important development— something that Voldemort most certainly should have kept her informed of. ‘Then again, he has been keeping quite a few secrets of his own, hasn’t he?’ The acceptance letter buried in the depths of the drawer flashed in her mind’s eye, a sourness on her tongue. ‘Taking my future seriously, huh?’ Tension drew her shoulders up, a bristling along the length of her spine— a disquieting realisation that he was, once again, orchestrating things without her knowledge— especially things that, apparently, concerned herself. It was just another item to add to the ongoing list of topics they would need to have a serious conversation about at some point.

“Oh, Narcissa, so secretive! Well, can you at least confirm one thing? I had heard from a little bird that the French Sovereign and his son will be coming to the gala?” Malkin prompted, the hovering tape measurers returning to her wrists.

“While I am not in a position to outright confirm anything,” Narcissa’s painted lips quirked into a half-smile, a note of pride colouring her voice, “I just might have to hire your ‘little bird’ for myself.”

“Well now!” the seamstress exclaimed brightly, clapping her hands together in delight, “Wouldn’t that just be a most advantageous match? Oh my! Do you think perhaps that’s why the French were invited?!”

Harri forced a smile when Malkin had glanced her way expectantly. It was too tight, too flat, too stretched— and it didn’t quite reach her eyes. As the women retreated to conclude the final particulars of their business, she remained behind on the platform, line of sight blurring. The only clear thing was the reflection of the insignia at her throat, the ruby that demarcated the snake’s eye catching the light— a mocking wink. Not for the first time was she left blindsided by his actions, unable to foresee what he was possibly playing at. As Malkin pointed out, it would certainly be a smart match. Entirely auspicious. As his officially recognised ward, she now, unfortunately, had the pleasure of representing a new line of succession in the quasi-monarchical system he had constructed. Before his ascension to the throne, it was how the Isles chose to differentiate themselves from their mainland counterparts. While Europe continued to operate under inherited legacies, of keeping the ruling authourity within the same family line, the Isles opted for a ministry— to function through election and democratic processes. A chance for fresh ideas to enter the office, for power to change into new hands in hopes of continually revitalising it— though it was, admittedly, highly impractical at times. Particularly when the Ministers of Magic kept disappearing.

But then Voldemort sought to uproot it all in favour of returning to the old ways— just like his broadcasted announcement in the Great Hall had assured he would. And while he was immortal, the need of securing his line through heirs conceived by political marriages obsolete, the public remained unaware of that one crucial fact— hence her ‘adoption’. So now the responsibility of continuing his dynasty fell to her— and tying the Isle’s sovereignty to the French’s would most certainly do that. In fact, it would be a wise move to have his claim backed by an institution that had already endured for centuries— one that was thoroughly established. Unshakeable. ‘What are you planning?’ she questioned the medallion silently, index finger lightly tracing over the cool metal.

And though Harri considered he wouldn’t dare let her out of his sight, her status as his horcrux far too valuable, she couldn’t entirely silence that little voice worrying over Malkin’s suggestion. True, he had been rather outright when it came to his desires towards her. That much was blatantly obvious— the burning look in those scarlet eyes, the possessive touches, the breath-stealing kisses. And, admittedly, she didn’t mind any of it— would even go as far to venture that their feelings were one and the same on that front. But she also wasn’t a fool to underestimate his lust for power nor his need to secure it. She had borne witness to that hunger, had felt the suffocating amount of want and desire for it in his mindscape— had choked time and time again on the deluge. And he was the most Slytherin of them all, far too ambitious for anything good to amount from inviting the French into their home. A damning revelation— she was, truly, his most attractive bargaining chip at the moment, wasn’t she? _‘It’s not like that. The old woman doesn’t know what she's saying. He would never.’_ Despite the attempts to make her see the logic, the rationale, it didn’t help. In the reflection, her chest was too still— a breath being held that she had to force herself to release. There was a churning in her stomach and a steadily increasing desire for a drink— a sneaking suspicion that she craved something far stronger than merely water.

The chatter in the background was becoming too much, their hushed murmurs over potential prospects and matches having the same effect as a tsunami— suffocating, battering, filling her lungs, her body, her mind with the torrent. She wanted to leave. To seek out that one person who was always at the heart of her problems— the very same that had also become her most confusing comfort. To demand answers from him for her sanity’s sake, to—.

The door handle turned.

Voices flooded in, rising in competing volume as they bickered and quarrelled.

“Draco! I told you they are occupied. You can’t just barge in—.”

“It is _my_ house, Bartemius. I can bloody well ‘barge in’ wherever I please, appointment or not!”

Harri whirled around when a familiar face had suddenly appeared in the mirror, a sneer contorting its refined features. The blond had shoved past the looming form of her guard, desperate hands snatching at the air when he slipped out of arm’s reach. Draco, too busy directing spiteful retorts the Death Eater’s way, had yet to notice her— an unbidden smile and a warmth blossoming behind her breastbone. While she had overheard news of his return in the study last night, she hadn’t considered it would happen so soon— not that it was unwelcomed, of course.

“Draco!” Harri cried.

At the same time, Narcissa had risen from the table abruptly, the teacups clattering dangerously. Her voice was sharp, alarmed, an admonishment clear in the bite of the two syllables, “Draco!”

“Oh my!” Malkin contributed to the clamour. 

“H-,” Draco had turned from Barty, the word dying on the tip of his tongue.

A sense of puzzlement overcame Harri as she took in the steadily creeping flush on the boy’s cheeks, the way his mouth had frozen around forming her name. He was rooted to the spot, his eyes the most owlish she had ever seen them— they were fixed unblinkingly ahead, their usual sly glint missing. Barty cleared his throat. Her gaze snapped to the man just as he was turning his head stubbornly up towards the ceiling, his hand darting out to grip the back of Draco’s neck— an insistent tug to turn him around. There was no protest, no hissing or spitting as the boy finally regained some of his wits, all too eagerly following the silent instruction. Brows knitted together at their unusual reactions. ‘What on Earth?’ 

And then her dress was being shoved into her open arms by a flustered Madam Malkin, attention finally drifting down. There was a delayed blink upon seeing the curve of her chest and the dip of her cleavage, the contrast of dark green against her skin. ‘Oh.’ The tendrils of mortification began to spread, a wildfire across her skin at the belated realisation she was still in her underwear. _‘Well, that certainly explains it.’_


	59. Vices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season and to those returning back to school, you have my condolences-- we will get through it together 😭 A fair warning, this chapter is a bit long-- I spent a few days trying to trim it back but it wasn't happening. I figured though you guys wouldn't mind having a bit more to read this time around though **hopefully**. 
> 
> As always, you guys are absolutely wonderful-- thank you for the comments, the kudos, and the bookmarks! They mean so much to me and I'm always excited to see engagement happening with this fic 💕 You all make the writing process so worth it 💕
> 
> Enjoy! ✨
> 
> **As a side note: I've linked my Pinterest and Tumblr profiles in my bio-- you can always message me on either site if you're curious about the next update timeline! **

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"My Lady, please wait!"

She smiled to herself, a quick, sharp little thing when he had called out— the man had been vying for her attention ever since they had left the entertainment parlour. And while Harri, originally, hadn't _meant_ to ignore Barty, thoughts of French princes and secret courting proposals weighing heavily on her mind, it was quickly turning into an amusing game. The vaulted halls of the corridor had been abandoned, the mansion blissfully quiet as the afternoon hours lazily stretched on. Streams of mild sunshine, not quite uncharacteristic for the summers in the Isles, filtered through the curved windows, the latticed design of their panes casting interesting shadows upon the checkered black and white tiles— and on the pleasant breeze was carried the scent of honeysuckle, the dulcet chirps of birdsong. The tranquillity of such a day was only disrupted by the slight clicking of tea-heels and the muffled sound of boots in a steadfast accompaniment. Every few steps forward and his would come rushing up behind, never daring to step in front of her though not quite willing to call off the pursuit. 

And on her periphery, her guard was frantic, flighty. Those dark brown eyes kept darting to her stubbornly turned profile, helplessly seeking a form of acknowledgement. 'Perhaps he thinks I'm upset?' The thought was as equally hilarious as his desperation— that private smile threatened to grow, a thrill of perverse delight at his heightened anxiety. A fitting recompense, she figured, that he should squirm a bit for the year he had spent deceiving her as fake-Moody.

They had turned the corner, the porcelain busts on their Grecian podiums bearing witness to the scene— they were animated, whitened eyes following after the pair and their carved necks twisting to further enjoy the drama. Harri paid them no mind, far too used to their eavesdropping.

"My Lady! Please!"

The heels came to a stop on the staircase's landing, a feigned disinterest as though she had only paused to adjust the bracelet upon her wrist— a rather pretty thing of silver braids, polished emeralds interlaid into every other space. How much it cost, she did not know— though, if she had to guess, it was probably a rather sufficient sum, especially considering who had picked it out. After the disruption to the fitting, a rather red-faced Draco had been spirited away by his mother with a slew of stern reprimands, while Malkin, fraught with secondhand embarrassment, had taken her leave. Which now meant her day had become blessedly free— and though she would have loved nothing more than to spend it outside while the weather was temperate, there was a girl waiting for her down in the dungeons. However, Barty was tenacious in trailing after her, no doubt looking to ascertain the degree of her forgiveness— a reluctant concession that she should probably humour him before he had an aneurysm. Arms folding across her chest, she did her best to fix her expression into what, she hoped, would amount to a faux-displeasure, not willing to give up their game just yet. 

"Please know it was not my intention, nor Draco's, to barge in on you like that— especially not in your, uhm, compromised state," he explained hastily.

Harri arched a single brow.

"And, I was wondering, if you could, uh," Barty fought for the right words, tongue darting skittishly over his lips, "perhaps, not tell my Lord about, well—.

"Seeing me in my underwear?" she finished for him, a struggle to keep the mirth out of her voice.

"Ah, yes. If it could remain between just us, I would be grateful."

"So, let me get this straight, you are asking that I _lie_ to Voldemort on your behalf?"

"Why, Barty, I'm shocked!" she exclaimed in mock surprise, a hand flying, scandalised, to her chest. "And here I was thinking you never lied to _your Lord_."

His eyes had blown wide in alarm, panic nearly palpable, "No, not lie, certainly not lie! Just— not telling him, per se. After all, my Lord doesn't need to be made aware of every little thing and it could be a burden—."

Harri couldn't keep it contained any longer— a quick giggle, a hiccup as she fought to swallow it down. Her vision watered, composure further slipping at his confusion, that bemused distress that made him appear more like an owl than a man. Her breaths were stilted as she tried to recover, one of the portraits on the wall wrinkling his nose at the unrefined display.

"Oh relax, Barty," she managed to get out. "I'm not telling him."

And then she was sauntering down the staircase, leaving behind the relieved man and calling out over her shoulder, "You're lucky that I like you."

* * *

* * *

Hidden by the shadows and leaning against the dampened wall, Harri had paused outside of the iron bars to take in the scene before her with some mode of delight. Over the course of the month, the cell had experienced quite the transformation, much to Voldemort's rather vocal disapproval— but Harri would be damned if Ron's sister continued to rot in the squalor of the dungeons. The conditions down here were grim, dingy, and a remodel was their best compromise— especially seeing as the Dark Lord had been adamant against moving a ‘prisoner’ to a guest bedroom. A heating charm had been cast to stave off the persistent draft, a twin bed shoved crudely against one wall— that had been a luxury she fought extensively for— and house-elves routinely dropped off hot meals. At the present, Ginevra Weasley was in what one might be inclined to call a state of relaxation. The ginger girl was on the bed, legs crossed and chin propped up by a fist. A magazine was before her, the two-page spread animated to show women on brooms executing death-defying plunges— a strobe of camera flashes and the white blaze of stadium lights illuminated the photograph.

"So, who won?"

"The Harpies, of course," Ginny muttered.

A delayed reaction as Ginny registered that someone had asked the question, a surge of adrenaline causing her to leap from the bed— a hand, unthinkingly, reached for a wand that wasn't there. She only relaxed minutely when a familiar face had stepped into the light, an exasperated groan.

"Blimey—!" she cried sharply. "Wear a bell next time or something, would you?!"

"Sorry," Harri said though her tone suggested she was anything but.

Pushing off from the archway, Harri slipped past the cell door— a creak on the hinges as metal grated against stone, the bars dutifully granting her entry. A roguish grin, shoulder playfully nudging the younger girl as she chose to settle on the bed rather than the cold grime of the floor. The air was noticeably warmer in the room and she readily welcomed it, the material of her gown not suited to ward off the frigidity of being underground. Drawing up her knees and wiggling back until there was enough room for both of them, she goodnaturedly patted the empty space next to her. Ginny rolled her eyes but joined her anyways, the springs groaning in protest under the added weight— per usual, Harri did her best to ignore the worshipful touches that discreetly grazed over the dress’s silk, the clear want in amber eyes when they landed upon the jewellery that adorned her throat, her wrists. At one point, she had tried to give Ginny some of her clothes to wear, to eventually take back with her, but Voldemort had vehemently drawn the line on the matter. It had been a topic of contention between them for days afterwards, his justification that one doesn't give away 'gifts'— though, what he truly meant was that one didn't give away gifts that came from _him._ 'Possessive git.'

"So the Harpies won again? What move did Griffiths pull this time?" she asked as Ginny sidled up closer, the lines of their bodies melding.

"A nosedive feint and brilliant it was— kind of like the one you did against Malfoy in 4th year. Absolutely ballsy!" Ginny explained, voice animated as she jabbed at the moving photograph with her index finger.

A small smile as Harri listened to her excitement, the enthusiasm as the girl gave a play-by-play recount of the match. While she, herself, enjoyed quidditch, it was what Ginny had lived and breathed for— in that regard, she was so much like her brother. And how comfortable the conversation was, a deja vu that they had had this exact same one before. The dynamic pitches in the girl's voice were lulling, consoling— the way one's favourite blanket was. The ratty sort that had holes in it and was pilling to an excessive degree, the kind that held happy memories in every stitch and smelled inexplicably of home. At one point, Ginny had placed her head on her shoulder, finding a place in the crook of her neck— an idle hand ran aimlessly across a back broader than her own, the mauve jumper scratchy and tickling her palm. A glow of contentment. For all she knew, or cared, they could have been back at the Burrow or tucked into the nest of floor pillows in the common room— the furthest thing from the reality of the dungeons.

"Honestly, when we get out of here, we have to try out together. You could be a Seeker and I'll be a Chaser, of course. The world won't know what hit them," Ginny's voice was wistful as she stared down at the silhouettes of women diving.

The smile faltered and the hand stilled. Harri didn't even have to look to know what kind of expression Ginny was sporting, what was held in her doe-ish eyes as she entertained the possibility of a future that would never pass. A dream— a foolish one at that. All she managed, in turn, was a soft hum, hand dropping down to the mattress— fingers twitched on the soft, but thin, covers of the bedspread, a strain to keep her expression from revealing too much. It was difficult to have some suspension of disbelief, the same level of fervour, when one was painfully aware of the limitations of reality. Her attention bounced about the cell, seeking a distraction to drown out Ginny's prattling on where tryouts were held, what stadiums they might play in. And there, etched into the opposite wall, were a slew of tally marks. They were engraved deeply into the stone in disordered rows, none of them uniform in height— a detached, passing thought wondering if they had been done by Ginny or the prison’s previous occupant. 

"And speaking of getting out," Ginny hopped off the bed, "I have a plan."

"What? Another famous Ginevra Weasley plan already?" Harri fought back a groan.

"Hey! They are pretty solid."

"Oh yeah— like fighting our way through a manor filled with armed Death Eaters."

"Well, I mean," Ginny squinted, voice hesitant as though not wanting to offend, "with your new, uhm, _abilities_ , I figured it wouldn't be too hard. And with you doing wandless magic, we could knock someone out and I could steal their—."

This time, Harri did groan, "We already talked about that."

"Okay, yeah, yeah fine. You're right," Ginny acknowledged, albeit a bit reluctantly. "But this new one is absolutely failproof."

Emerald eyes tracked the path of the younger girl's pacing, fingers interlocked behind her back. That was another thing that was difficult to tolerate as of late, to have the patience to endure— these hare-brained schemes concocted without a care or thought. And every single time, Harri had to remind herself this was how Ginny was coping, that she was frightened and thinking of freedom allowed her to manage. It was understandable, of course. Most people generally jumped to formulating strategies for escape when captured— she most certainly did herself, once upon a time. But, unlike Ginny, Harri had months to wisen up. She had seen the truth of her circumstances and made her peace with it— had learned to act to preserve herself, her integrity, while attempting to find some semblance of comfort in this strange, unexpected life. Unbidden, red eyes flashed in her mind— she tried to banish them, to not focus too hard on the implications of her subconscious. Thankfully, Ginny had taken to talking, a much-needed diversion.

"You figure out where he took the coin, right, and we activate it. I know the phrase, it'll bring us directly back to the base," the Weasley girl spun on her heels, eyes bright with expectation. "Easy, right? And no, well maybe _some_ , fighting involved."

Harri flopped down on the mattress, the frame creaking precariously under the sudden movement. Sure, it would be 'easy' enough for Ginny— she wouldn't have to do the legwork. 'Easy' for Ginny in that she didn't have the weight on her shoulders of a solemn promise to hunt her down to the ends of the Earth if she ran. The heels of her palms pressed into her eyes, a desperate attempt to stifle the smallest spark that remained after all this time— the one that still mutinously entertained the notion of seeing Hermione, Ron, everyone, again. At maybe getting to return to the life she once had and chalking this all up to a wild, fictitious dream— but was that even possible? Or, and she despised this was a question, did she even _want_ to? Leaving would mean leaving Vol— she pressed down harder, a burst of neon colours behind closed lids. It was a struggle to keep the agitation out of her voice.

"I can't."

"What— Harri, it would be easy! We activate the portkey—."

"Except, _I_ can't."

She hauled herself up into a sitting position, tone flat, "I'm keyed into the wards, Gin. Portkey or not, I'm not getting through by apparating."

Ginny's brows knitted together at the unforeseen problem, visibly deflating, "Okay, okay, minor hiccup. But they have a floo here, right? Wards or not, you could still use the network. We could get to—. "

"He's locked that too," Harri waved her hand dismissively. "I've already tried unlocking the door and it doesn't respond to an alohomora."

"Maybe we could—."

"Ginny, everything you're thinking of, he's already thought through. Trust me on this."

"Why are you shooting down everything I have to say?! Can’t you see I’m trying?!"

Harri blinked at the sudden outburst, a stupor overcoming her at the sudden shift in mood. The Weasley girl was clearly holding back tears, the wet sheen evident in those amber eyes— she glanced down to the quiver of her chin, the trembling of squared shoulders. Desperation had turned her voice high, reedy, faltering. And some small part of Harri, a part she would outright deny to ever existing, found warped satisfaction in Ginny’s distress— that the oh-so-optimistic girl was finally grasping the gravity of their grim realities. That the time for fairytales, for playing quidditch and returning to the past, were up. ' _Finally._ ' 

"As much as all of this," Ginny gestured wildly about the cell, "isn't as bad as I thought it would be, I want to go home! And I thought you did too— so why aren't you doing anything to get us out of here?! Don't you want to go back to the Order— to get out and fight!?"

And she waited for the anger. For the hot blaze of it, for the consuming heat to grow at the accusation— after all, she had done everything she could to initially fight against Voldemort. That had been her entire life's vendetta, her one, singular, thankless mission bestowed onto her by Fate. Yet, look where it had gotten them all— broken, scattered. Hiding like rats in a sewer while he had gained a crown and a country. She waited to feel the burn of indignation, to bristle against the accusation— what came in its stead, however, was a sense of detached calmness, a disimpassionment. And when her mouth opened, it was a steady whisper that had slipped out.

"Did it ever occur to you that, maybe, I don't want to fight? That I'm tired of it?"

"W-what?"

"Maybe I don't feel like risking my neck for an organisation that willingly allies themselves with another Dark Lord," Harri levelled the younger girl with an unblinking stare.

"Harri!"

She rose from the bed with a fluid grace, eyeing as Ginny had shrunk in her mystified panic, "Oh yes, I know all about Gregorovitch. Like how you guys are getting wands from him illegally, how you are all registering them under aliases."

"Yeah, but Harri, that's not the same! Gregorovitch isn't Grindelwald."

"No, just his most loyal. Tell me, what did Gregorovitch ask in return? Surely it wasn't just money— after all, he was paid to go into retirement."

"I-I don't know. I- Sirius and Mum, the adults, they deal with him."

"Well," Harri hummed, "I have some guesses as to what he wants— and let's hope the Order can't uphold their end of the deal."

She had taken a step forward, emerald gaze narrowed. The silver medallion at her throat caught the light— Ginny had taken an uneasy step back in response, the flickers of fear causing those brown eyes to turn murky. And Harri did briefly wonder what she must have looked like, what possible expression she was wearing that could have frightened the girl so— there it was again, that festering, foreign sense of self-satisfaction. 

"Seriously, did you not consider, for one moment, that this was a terrible idea?"

"I- We—."

There was a ringing in her ears, a persistent, unyielding sound that refused to cease— Harri rolled her shoulders in an attempt to drive it off.

"He’s furious, you know. Voldemort views your attempts to involve Grindelwald as a threat to his claim as the Dark Lord— and he won't tolerate another trying to rise back into power," she had unconsciously slipped into parseltongue. _"You can be certain he'll be on a warpath if that happens. And we both better pray that it doesn't."_

A moment too late Harri realised what she had done. The waned face of Ginny was sobering, her mouth slack and shoulders drawn up— she looked petrified and on the verge of fainting. Guilt stung remorselessly, an edge of dismay that she had been the cause for such a reaction— she should have known better, should have been more aware considering the girl's previous experience in the chamber. And some part of her felt disgusted that she had even enjoyed seeing her friend look so fearful, that cowing her had given her an undeserved sense of complacency. The ringing abruptly ended— a trail off into blessed silence.

"Shit— I'm sorry, Gin," Harri tried for an apology, a shaky smile entirely too watery as she took a step forward— the other girl winced. Regret flourished.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I—," she extended a hand in a truce, "I know it isn't your fault, Gin, I know. But I _want_ to help." 

An unsteady exhale, a pleading as she tried to make Ginny understand, "You guys are messing with things that you shouldn't and I just want to protect you— Ron, your brothers, your Mum. Everyone. But I can't unless you tell me everything you remember about Gregorovitch, this deal. Where he might be. Anything— please."

And for a moment, Harri feared Ginny might refuse. That she had been scared too witless by whatever she had seen to comply, had been too frightened by the unconscious slip into parseltongue— that she might doubt such intentions. She tried to exude a comforting air, one of reassurance— whether she was successful or not, however, was a matter of debate. But then Ginny had given a small, reluctant nod, a nervous acquiescence as she took the proffered hand. The hesitation made her stomach clench but Harri jumped at the opportunity nonetheless.

* * *

* * *

Silence reigned, a heavy, swaddling weight. Her dinner, a simple enough affair of roasted pheasant, rested on the side table, long since abandoned and long since cold. Harri couldn't bring herself to touch it, head assaulted by a dull throbbing and stomach too unsettled to even consider eating— a shame for it had smelled quite wonderful when the house-elf had brought it by. Lengthening shadows were quickly adorning the walls, the ornate pattern of the Persian rug, the intricate crown-moulding on the ceiling. A purgatory as the evening stretched on, her very own limbo as the next course of action remained unclear— an infernal waiting room where she could do nothing but sit with bated breath until _he_ returned.

She had hoped that after talking to Ginny, things would have straightened out— that they would have come into focus, made sense. Perhaps not have been as damning as she had initially feared. Things, however, could never be that easy, oh no. Not whenever Harri Potter was concerned. What was gleaned from Ginny's rather limited knowledge told her that the Order knew, exactly, what Gregorovitch desired, that they were willing to oblige him in hopes that one Dark Lord would neutralise the other— an incriminating plan that reeked of desperation. And though fools they may be, Harri knew she couldn't watch from afar as they were crushed under the blowback of such rash decisions. What had Voldemort once called her? 'Right. A 'bleeding heart',' a derisive snort at how true the assessment was. Currently nestled in one of the plush chairs, bare legs slung over the armrest to dangle freely, her toes wriggled in discontentment. It was a sight that would surely cause Narcissa to have a conniption.

An unexpected pop from the mantle, the sound of a log cracking in half as its integrity succumbed to the heat. Emerald eyes looked over to it lazily, tracking the path of a rebellious ember— it sparked against the metal grate before dying. How long had she been waiting? When the house-elf first arrived with the evening meal, an apology had been passed along for the Dark Lord’s absence— working late had been the excuse, the nervous energy of the creature betraying that it hadn't been entirely forthcoming. 'Working, huh?' Without anyone around, Harri didn't feel the need to stifle the urge to roll her eyes, feet flexing to a point. It wasn't difficult to figure out what the code was— but why she hadn't been invited to the meeting, despite having been to countless ones prior, was bewildering. Nonetheless, she was determined to stay up and wait for him, the need for a conversation greater than that of sleep— and if she was, secretly, itching for a suitable target for her ire, who could blame her? 

Somewhere deep within the heart of the mansion, the grandfather clock sounded off the chime of another dying hour. Harri counted along, moaning when the thunderous melody trailed off. '10 pm? Are you bloody kidding me— what the hell are they even talking about?!’

Surrendering to gravity, her crown tilted back— a cascade of auburn hair spilled over, the tips grazing the floor. Fixating a glare up to the ceiling, mind distractedly trying to envision blurred faces in the flourished design, she yawned. Toes curled and uncurled to chase off the numbing pinpricks, an itch of impatience behind her breastbone and a flare of annoyance that worsened the pain in her temples. It had been getting incrementally worse since her encounter with Ginny in the dungeons, an unrelenting pounding. Hands folded across her stomach, lashes lowering to lessen the headache's intensity.

The doors slammed open abruptly. Their frames rattled precariously— Harri jolted at the show of violence. Feigning sleep, she cracked one eye and watched from a downturned gaze as Voldemort stormed in, a flare in her scar and the crackle of charged static following close behind. He was donning the severely cut robes reserved for the meetings with his acolytes, the fluid cloth of them cut, seemingly, from Death's own shroud— she considered it was to make him look more fearsome, menacing. Not that he needed much help on that front. The angelic mask usually borne for the public’s sake was nowhere to be found, his features contorted by a snarl. 'Well, that explains the headache.' He was muttering under his breath, the incoherent blurring of parseltongue too rapid for her to catch— and Harri feared, rightfully so, that such displeasure was inspired by her. The lines of her body went taut, a suspended second where she waited. Waited for him to hover over her, waited for those hands to shake her awake, waited for the demands to know what she had done— for that magic of his to wrap around her, a snake constricting, and just _squeeze_. And Harri fortified herself to face his anger with her own, to feed off that vitriolic mood and channel it into something she could use for armour.

He stalked past her.

The twitches of a frown and an overriding sense of bemusement as the balcony doors were opened. She only paused long enough to make sure he had left before daring to sit up, strung nerves turning lax. Twisting to peer over the edge of the armchair, a symphony of cracks along her spine, she peered out onto the veranda. The Dark Lord had his back to her— a sight rarely experienced as of late— his shoulders flexed and head bowed ever so slightly. Bemusement fell to concern. And then, against her better judgement, she was tentatively approaching him, feet a whisper over the ground.

"Go back inside. You're going to catch a cold," his muttered command. 

She pressed on, resolutely ignoring the sting of the evening air against her exposed limbs and the stone tile nipping her toes. Long since had she changed into her nightclothes and she halfheartedly regretted it, the honeysuckle-breeze carrying a chill. Even though they were approaching the peak of summer, the days balmy and sometimes unforgiving, the dusk was still marked by a dip in temperature. And while Harri had no idea as to where, exactly, Malfoy Manor was located, there was a suspicion they were close to the North Sea— after all, Little Whinging had never been like this.

"I don't mind," she said slowly.

"You haven't eaten," he pointed out tersely, not quite looking at her.

"Not hungry, I suppose."

Harri paused by his shoulder, the barest glimmers of alarm at how off he seemed. His eyes, nearly as dark as wine under the moonlight, were fixed firmly out onto the manicured lawn, the muscle flexed in the curve of his jaw— she glanced down to his hands, the knuckles whitened from the pressure in which they were gripping the railing. Something was wrong and she had a feeling that, for once, it wasn't her fault— or, at least, not yet. A soft sigh and the girl leaned against the balustrade, elbows propping her up and back turned to the acres of kempt grass. She continued to observe him, eyes dragging over his profile when he had fallen silent. It would be a truth universally acknowledged that, even in his rancour and displeasure, Tom Riddle was a beautiful creature— one might even be inclined to say that only added to the appeal. A man who had the face of a god and the thrill of a power to back it. 'How many,' she noted the curl that rested above his brow, fingers itching to brush it back into place, 'have fallen for that face alone?' Harri considered it had to be an impressive number if the clamouring in the Great Hall each morning was to be an indication— flashes of Lavender sitting cross-legged on her bed, joyfully pasting his photos into a scrapbook. 

And despite having been around the man nearly every day, there were still moments when he would manage to stun her— the flash of an indulgent smile, the casual grace in his hands, the sound of his laughter. 'What Lav would give to be in my shoes right now,' a fleeting thought, enraptured by how radiant he was under the halo of stars. Luminous, splendent— in the depths of her subconscious, an image persisted. How flawless his naked skin had been, how broad his shoulders, the sharp angles of his hips as the towel hung off them haphazardly—.

"You're staring again."

A blink— the trance shattered. Harri snapped her head forward, the tips of her ears burning, "Sorry."

Voldemort chuckled under his breath, tone edged with something close to amusement, "I never said that I minded."

And that was the truth— at least where Harri was concerned. While there were times when he didn't mind the scrutiny as much, times when it even entertained him— gave him the sense of a god transversing amongst mortals— it mostly irked him. Especially in those unfortunate instances when he was privy to their vapid thoughts. And yes, having a face most deemed attractive was an undeniable advantage, especially when combined with a honeyed tongue— it was how he had managed to climb so high, so quickly, to do what Icarus, ultimately, could not. But the benefits were nulled whenever those prying looks and untempered lusts edged under his skin, festering and cloying— an unwavering, never-quieting buzz in his conscious. But Harri? Harri, with those impossibly green eyes and reverential innocence? Well, she could make any king or man feel as though they owned the world— an uncanny power he was certain she wasn't even aware of possessing. And some masochistic side to himself wondered how many, exactly, had she unknowingly influenced in that way? How many had she trapped under such a spell— pale eyes and blond hair made an uninvited appearance in his thoughts. A boy with an air of arrogance— how hopeful he had looked entering the assembly, no doubt searching for a certain girl.

He clenched his jaw, teeth nearly cracking. A wandering hand slipped into the inner pocket to retrieve a cardboard carton and lighter. The blissful moments where he had forgotten the meeting were gone, frustration only growing with hindsight— a cigarette was brought to his mouth, lighter flaring to life. He considered there were probably more refined methods of smoking, something more magical and befitting of his reputation— but they weren't nearly as mollifying. That there was something comforting found in the remnants of his adolescent rebellion, a solace in the routine. Voldemort inhaled, encouraging the embers to grow. He knew she was watching. That astonishment was clear in those wide eyes, her surprise a palpable, vibrant, living thing in their bond. A slow drag, crimson gaze sliding over to his horcrux. Logic demanded that he get her a coat, a cloak, something to cover herself up with— the girl was shaking to a considerable degree. But sadism thought it would be a shame— not when she wore the moonlight oh-so-prettily, not when she shivered oh-so-beautifully. And feeling the need to contribute, depravity wondered how she would look trembling from something other than the cold. A war of multiple factions, of truths in his mind. Voldemort pulled the cigarette away, exhaling through parted lips. The smoke curled into the night sky, a wisp dancing up to the stars.

"Bad meeting?" Harri finally asked, trying to recover from the shock of seeing the Dark Lord _smoke_ , of all things.

"If you would count being surrounded by incompetent, useless fools as a ‘bad meeting’," he gritted out, "then yes."

“Incompetent fools’? Yikes, what did they do? Forget to meet their monthly quota of burning down villages and robbing cradles?" she angled for a joke to lessen the tension— all she received was a scowl.

"A _month_. They've already had a month. And yet, Fenrir and those useless mutts of his still haven't found Gregorovitch."

Harri watched as he tapped the ash over the veranda's balustrade, tracing the glow of embers as they plunged into the darkness below— they extinguished mid-way through their freefall. The malice in his tone made even her wince, a rush of pity for the werewolf. While she held no love for Fenrir, their past interactions leading her to find him rather distasteful, it wasn't entirely his fault Gregorovitch was eluding capture. Green eyes trailed back over to Voldemort, his stare focused on some point in the distance. He took another inhale, two truths processing unexpectedly— one, smoking was strangely attractive when he did it, and two, she was intrigued. She had the oddest urge to try it herself, despite never giving much thought to the habit prior, a heightened curiosity as to what it must feel and taste like. Entranced as he held the cigarette loosely between two fingers, she studied the smouldering end.

"A month really isn't that long. Europe's a big place, after all," she reasoned.

"Not that you would understand, Harri, but time is of the essence here," Voldemort snapped. "The longer I sit around waiting, the more active Grindelwald's remaining factions will become."

He could feel his temper rising— those little solar flares in the darkness of his mindscape, the scattered pockets of heat that threatened to coalesce. And he rationally knew it wasn't because of Harri— no, she was just unlucky enough to be in his vicinity at the moment. But while she was sleeping soundly at night, a fact he made certain of, he was kept awake by troubled thoughts— thoughts mostly involving Grindelwald. While confident in his abilities, having the edge of being younger and possessing the elder wand, and assured by his theory that Dark Lords were chosen cyclically, the possibility still nagged, however slight, that he could be defeated— after all, Dumbledore had nearly been when the two faced each other in their youth. And now wasn't the right time to potentially face Grindelwald, not when he was still missing one of the vital pieces that would secure him an ultimate victory— a piece he was still searching for. He had come too far, sacrificed too much, bled too deeply for everything to come collapsing down now.

And then there was the separate matter of a menace that took the form of a teenage boy with pointed features and an upturned nose. Another looming threat, another pressing question— 'Just how close are they?' A constant worry that something was missed while he had been busy building his empire, his legacy. And though she never explicitly mentioned the boy to him, it was undeniable that she held some degree of affectionate concern towards Draco— however, whether it was romantic or platonic remained unaddressed. It set him on edge.

Voldemort took another slow drag, the paper turning to ash in a slow crawl.

“While you may be able to sit around all day, playing dress-up and Merlin only knows what else, not all of us have that luxury,” his tongue turned silver— a distant voice screaming for him to shut up, to stop talking— he couldn't. "Some of us have responsibilities that we can't just ignore whenever we want."

She stared at him with thinly-veiled incredulity. Harri did her best to rationalise he hadn't necessarily meant it, that he was speaking from a place of frustration— she could feel it, after all, as vivid and defined as her own emotions. 'He's upset and venting,' logic reminded— and how she hated that it did. The rough grit of the railing bit into her elbows, a sustained ache that only added to her worsening mood. And while she knew it was best to not overreact, it was difficult to fully resist the desire to become a thorn in his side nonetheless. Before she knew what she was doing, she was reaching for the cigarette. Plucking it from his lips, Harri didn't deign to answer that sharp, silent question held in his gaze— a tentative inhale, the acidic taste of tobacco a bright bloom on her tongue. It mildly burnt her lungs, a scratching tickle as she exhaled— a steady stream of smoke filled the space between them as she turned to Voldemort, something akin to triumph upon seeing that bewildered expression of his.

"Well, it's not surprising," she stated nonchalantly.

"What is?"

"That Fenrir can't find Gregorovitch," Harri explained with an arch of her brow and the slightest smirk. "Considering he isn't even in Europe at the moment."

That triumph morphed into unbridled exultation when he was rendered mute— the slack in his jaw at what she was insinuating, the hunger held in those scarlet depths. Harri twisted around to press her stomach into the railing, leaning forward and ankles crossed— she wanted to savour the moment.

"You know where he is," Voldemort finally breathed out.

"That I do."

"And?"

She tapped off the ash with the ease of a practised smoker, a teasing lilt in her voice, “Relax, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. But you know, I can’t divulge something as precious as this without a little quid pro quo.”

Harri knew he had tried to stifle his scoff, the sound caught between outrage and amusement— a muttered 'brat' under his breath. And when he had asked her what she wanted, that small smirk lifted even higher. Unable to fully help herself, relishing that she had, finally, gotten the upper-hand, glinting eyes shifted over her shoulder. They landed purposefully on the desk— it stood out in the study, so starkly austere that it could be seen from beyond the double French doors. 

"Oh, I already took the liberty of working out a new deal between us."

"You-!"

A delayed reaction before he was fleeing back inside. She was being, by no means, subtle, both of them knowing intimately what was housed in the top drawer of the desk. There was hissing, the clean snap of a latch springing free— a frantic shuffling. Harri took a drag, chancing a glimpse up to the northern star. It twinkled against the inky backdrop, the brightest pinpoint in a sky punctuated by them— a beacon for all those who were lost to follow. A cry of dismay, of vexation from behind her. ‘Looks like he found the wand.’

"Harri!" he called her, demanding to be obeyed.

Satisfaction thrummed in her veins as she dabbed the remainder of the lit cigarette onto the railing. It fizzled in protest, a blackened pockmark set against the white stone. And as she left the bud next to the ash, a thought crossed her mind that smoking was something she could rather get used to. 

The bloodied wand was laxly held between long fingers, his eyes a matching shade that sparked in their blatant displeasure. They were fixed on his horcrux, slanting with derision at how blasé she appeared— and, inwardly, he was begrudgingly impressed that she managed to figure out the drawer's locking mechanisms in the first place. Harri had paused in the balcony's doorway, arms crossed defiantly and leaning into the frame— the pair stared at one another, a silent appraisal and unspoken challenge to see who would determine the course of the conversation. And then numerous things clicked— what she had been doing lurking in the study, the perplexing scent of fresh blood. 'She was throwing off the trace.' Astonishment caused his mask to slip, brows raising in his surprise. He had been so certain she was unaware of how the charm functioned, nevermind how to impede its accuracy— yet, as always, the girl was intent on defying his expectations.

When her face had lit up with mirth, with unfiltered delight, he realised he had been caught gaping— embarrassment became an ugly twin to anger. Voldemort tossed the wand onto the desk, the sound a dull clang as it bounced once, then twice, before rolling off the edge. It disappeared somewhere on the floor below. Where, exactly, he did not care— it was next to useless to him now. 

"You-," he seethed quietly, "do you have any idea what you have done?!"

"Oh, stop with the theatrics," she snapped in turn."You don't need the wand!"

Harri moved further into the room, crossing the rug with measured strides. The orange glow of the fire stretched her shadow long, a distorted image imposed upon the rows of bookcases that made her seem larger than she actually was. Marching to the desk, pausing on the side opposite to him, hands found purchase among the sheaves of parchment. Fingers splayed to balance her weight, she leant forward, chin lifting mulishly. Mentally, she added 'sore loser' to the ongoing list of areas that the Dark Lord needed to sorely improve in.

"You don't need it," she repeated, "when I'm giving you the maker instead. What's worth more to you— a stranger's wand or knowing where Gregorovitch is?"

Voldemort slammed his hands down on the desk to mimic her posture, leaning forward to loom over her— his lip curled into a sneer at that belligerent, obstinate look burning in those verdant eyes. In retrospect, he supposed he should be happy about the development— his horcrux was proving to do what his followers could not. She was capable, resourceful, cunning— that, as Bellatrix had pointed out, she was quickly learning what it meant to play their game. Not to mention, in a roundabout way, Harri was hinting that she was on his side, was willing to help him through her own methods. But there was a fundamental truth to his character that baulked at the notion of being outsmarted, shown-up, that despised it more than anything else— especially when her motives for doing such were spurred on by a past that refused to die. That her entire reason for providing any assistance on the matter was to find another lamb for slaughter and not out of any modicum of loyalty.

"Don't be coy, Harri, we both know whose wand that was. Miss Granger will surely be missing it— all I wanted was to ensure their proper reunion," he moved closer, his face hovering near her own. "But offering up one life for another? A touch dark for you, wouldn't you say, love?"

Harri stifled her nerves when he had so casually acknowledged that it was Hermione's spare, a mild surge of panic at the admission. But such a feeling rapidly ebbed when he had shifted forward so their noses nearly brushed— that, despite the gravity, the threats, the strung tension, there was an unwitting skip in her pulse. And she cursed herself for instinctively glancing down to his lips, an inappropriate thought, however brief, entertaining the possibility that he might kiss her— he seemed to have noticed it as smug interest coloured the foreground of their bond. A dry swallow and she made herself scowl at the spot between his brows, a stern self-admonition that now wasn't the time to become distracted— and, rationally, she should have put some distance between them by now to enforce that boundary. But that taunt of his, that snide comment, made it impossible to back down first, to grant him the flustered reaction he was clearly angling for.

"Do you want to know where Gregorovitch is or not?" she gritted out.

A beat of silence as he remained uncompromisingly close, not moving as though he were weighing his current options. Then there was a click of his tongue, a reluctant adjustment as he leaned back to the slightest degree.

Harri interpreted it as his way of saying yes without verbally acknowledging she held all of the pieces— 'Ass.'

"As I said, he's not even in Europe. The last weekend of every month, he comes to the Isles to meet with the Order and sell them the wands— probably through an illegal portkey. They meet in the back of the Three Broomsticks," she explained. "If you send someone there tomorrow, they'll be there when he arrives." 

Voldemort straightened his spine— a curt nod on his end as he closed the drawer, mind turning over with a plan. If her intel was correct, then they would have the wandmaker in custody sooner than later— it was the good news he desperately needed. Yet, despite that, he couldn’t quite ignore the desire to express his discontent. 

"While I admit you've done well in upholding your promise on retrieving information from Miss Weasley, Harri, results do not excuse your methods. The sneaking around, the deception— we talked about this, did we not?"

A delayed blink on her end.

"Deception?" she echoed softly.

And she might have laughed at his nerve for even suggesting such a thing if she wasn't so appalled by his apparent inability to recognise his own hypocrisy. Harri levelled a withering look on him, lips thinning— ambling slowly over to the bookcases, she sought to divert herself with some of the trinkets littering the shelves before she saw fit to set him on fire. Or worse. _'Be an adult about this,'_ a stern reminder as the spyglass, silver and put on display under a glass cloche, was the recipient of her animosity. The metal tarnished, ugly blooms spreading over the once pristine surface. 'Calm yourself'— her conscience chimed in, a persistent buzz, an annoying fly.

"Yeah, I thought we had. Talked about it, I mean."

"What are you implying, Harri?" the question was a quiet one, an undercurrent of a warning.

"Just that I thought we both agreed to trust one another, that's all," fingers traced idly over the spines of the books. "But that's my bad if I misunderstood."

There was no immediate response but Harri could feel the weight of his shrewd appraisal on her shoulders, the way he was following from afar as she paced along the shelving. And somehow, him refusing to say anything just made it all the more incriminating— it fuelled her forward, a surge of resentment.

"You want to talk about deception? Alright, fine. When were you going to tell me about the courting proposals? Or, for another matter, the fact you, inexplicably, had _my_ acceptance letter in a locked drawer?"

"Har—."

"Or, oh I don't know," she interrupted him at the first signs of protest, glaring at the slanted titles of the novels, "that you decided to invite the French to my birthday? Seems like something you should have mentioned to me by now, doesn't it?"

Her steps came to a halt, a belated realisation that she had walked halfway around the study's perimeter in a bout of distracted anger. Harri allowed her hand to drop from the bookcases, a coil of nerves and a spark behind her ribs as she waited— waited for a reply, a drawn out anticipation to fight with him, for that ever-cresting wave of antagonism to crash. And some part of her truly hoped he would attempt to lie his way out of it, to somehow make it out to be her fault. A shaky breath was held, a burning as her lungs swelled— an endeavour to find her center before it was too late.

"Harri, you wouldn't understand."

Ah— there it was. The safest route— a purposefully ambiguous answer that didn't outright confirm nor deny, that belittling phrase that made it seem as though she were little more than a simple child. It was a tactic she had spent years enduring, the favourite move of a certain ex-headmaster whenever he felt tired of dealing with her, when he couldn't be bothered to put in the effort to explain his decisions. The coil wound tighter, an ache in her teeth— that insatiable itch somewhere deep inside of her flourished.

"It is difficult to explain and not for you—."

She whirled around, voice pitching, "So make it make sense then, Tom!"

If he was surprised by the sudden usage of his name, he hadn't shown it— save for the slightest jump in the muscle above his brow and the rigidity bleeding into his shoulders. Her hands fell to her sides— nails impressed deep half-moons into their palms, the pain nor the impending threat to break the skin heeded. Voldemort had gone impossibly still from behind the desk, a calculating light as he regarded the girl, her emotions spilling over into their shared connection— an ugly whirlwind of embittered spite and heightened dread. 

"Do you want to know what I've been thinking during those times you claim I'm 'playing dressup'? I'm wondering if I made the wrong choice," she moved half a step closer to him. "If I made a mistake in choosing _you_. So tell me, should I regret it? Am I your equal? Or just another bargaining chip for you to trade off to whoever makes the highest offer?!"

This time, the shock did show clearly upon his face— his brows drew together, a crease between them deepening. Static crackled over his skin, a charged current from her leaking magic that made the air in the room feel alive, voltaic. The puzzle was complete— why she had brought up the French invitation in the first place, the courting proposals, the presence of dread mixed into her anger. And Voldemort, though he tried, couldn't quite help the burst of laughter, far too entertained by the ludicrous notion to suppress it. 'So that is what she's thinking?' A flash of too-white, too-sharp teeth— the delight of him a startling contrast to the bewilderment of her. He rounded the desk, the chuckle trailing off as his amusement darkened, morphed into something more warped— a driving, possessive need to remedy any and all of her misconceptions of the matter as thoroughly as possible.

The Dark Lord approached the girl, hands reaching for her own— a frown when she jerked away from him, a rush of irritation at the ensuing vehement objections.

"It's not funny! I'm being serious— I'm not going to go off and marry some stranger so you can keep up this stupid pretense—."

"Harri," Voldemort interjected, reaching for her hands again and grasping them tightly— she protested, trying to yank free. "Will you stop and listen for just one second?!"

"I didn't tell you about the proposals because they don't matter. It's not my intention, not now or ever, to _make_ you marry anyone— least of all a stranger," he explained. “Do you really think I would send you away like that?”

Harri stopped struggling. Teeth sunk into the soft flesh of her inner-cheek, a deliberate gnaw as she sought to determine the truth of the sentiment. 'He could be lying.' His thumbs were running across the backs of her hands— the delicate bones shifted under his administrations, the joints pliant. Warmth was spreading out from the point of their contact, a creeping crawl up her arms, over her chest, a pleasant heat on the back of her neck. And while she, normally, would have been upset with him for tapping into the horcrux bond without her consent, it was difficult to be when relief rolled through her like one wave after another— an unwitting, soothing balm.

"Then what about the French? You're not trying to match me with a certain prince of theirs?" the question was muttered as she looked down to their hands— the way his engulfed hers, tapered fingers so easily interwoven with her own.

"Wherever did you get such an idea?" 

"Madam Malkin suggested—."

"Malkin," a sneer on the name, his grip a fleeting squeeze, "is an old gossip that only exists to create needless drama."

The corners of his mouth twitched at the lingering traces of her anxiety— intense bursts of putrid yellow in his mindscape, the ensuing acidity an unwelcome dance upon his own tongue. 'She doesn't believe me.' And that thought alone inspired an odd sort of muted panic, the origins of the impulse to relieve her of such worries eluding him. Untangling their fingers, he lightly cupped her palms instead, coaxing them to turn over— they limply followed the instruction, their smoothness marred with deep impressions from her nails. Her wrists were exposed, his gaze roaming over the fork of them with keen interest. They were beautiful, he had determined in the moment, a blue that bled away into purple, a lovely contrast against the translucency of her skin— like the morning sky in the early hours before dawn, a poetic beauty. And how easy, almost terrifyingly so, it would be to make that sky bleed red— to see what secrets were held inside of her, what she was composed of.

"I promise you, Harri, my only purpose for inviting them was to show that I can play nice. Nothing more and nothing less."

And then he was dipping his head, lips pressing into the open left palm— a chaste kiss in the cradle between her life and heart lines, seeking to cover where those half-moons lay. She jolted at the unexpected contact, confusion offset by the driving curiosity that kept her rooted into place— a thrum of anticipation. Another featherlight kiss to her Mount of Venus, the soft muscle where the thumb converged into the palm. When his lips met her wrist, however, it was a harder press, more grounded, more real. Over the branching veins, he could feel her pulse, the way it was a flighty rhythm, an erratic cadence. The very opposite to his own lethargy— a possessive sort of pride that he could elicit such a reaction, the desire to see what else he could draw out from her curbed by a barely-strung will. Crimson eyes lifted up to hers, evenly held. Unwavering.

 _"You are far more than a 'bargaining chip',_ his words were a solemn whisper into her skin. _"No, my dear one, you are a gift— one that isn't to be so casually squandered on lesser men."_

Harri fought to gain a level head— to not be blindsided by such unforeseen tenderness. But, as she was quickly learning, it was a battle near impossible to win. The window for clear thoughts was narrowing at an alarming rate, the sensation of his lips on her and the slip into parseltongue a fatal combination for her sanity. And as she stared down into those eyes, a heat held in them that made her breath hitch and her skin flush, she did her best to listen to the faint warning bells. That muddled plea to understand this was still Lord Voldemort— that things were never fully innocent or sweet or normal between them. It wasn't in either of their nature. And yet, Harri found herself succumbing to the idea anyways— perhaps it was a willful ignorance or a naive need for escapism, who could say. All the same, his words made her choke. Like she had taken a greedy gulp of water, too-fast and too-much, a pocket of air that stung on its way down and persisted as a strange fullness in her stomach. A heavy swallow, his eyes drawn to the movement of the column of her throat.

"And what about the letter?" she forced the question, voice hoarse, cracking.

His gaze flitted back to her face, spine straightening as he noted how pinched her expression remained. A guarded look, a carefully constructed mask though all he truly desired was to draw her to him, to smooth out every line, every crease— but then she had to ask about the letter. And he knew that whatever he would say or do next was going to make things worse— at least the proposals had been a misunderstanding, simple enough to correct. But the letter? That was different. 

Eyes glinting in the dim light, their colour enriched by the warmth of the fire, he guided her to the lounge— a tilt of his chin in an unspoken request she sit. Mind racing with countless scenarios, he allowed her the chance to settle while he turned to the one thing he knew he could always rely on for fortification— the Dark Lord poured himself a drink. Scotch splashed noisily into the glass, the rounded globe of ice spinning under the steady stream. A pause and then, before rationality could talk him out of it, he prepped a second one— she was going to be seventeen soon enough anyway. 'Who knows, it might even make her more receptive to the conversation,' a humourless, scathing thought.

Voldemort arranged himself next to the girl, pointedly glancing down to the feet that rested upon the sofa— an arch of his brow and a defiant tilt of her head in response. Wisely, he chose to withhold his commentary. Handing her a tumbler, the left leg crossed over the right as he leaned back into the chaise. Her stare pinned him down, a weighted expectation— an unbidden look as she drew her knees up to her chest, the nightgown shifting to reveal more skin than usual. Tongue running over his canines, he took a contemplative sip to distract himself from the direction his thoughts were heading, the burn of alcohol an anchor.

"I'm starting a new school," he stated bluntly, staring at the quivering flames in the mantel instead.

"For muggleborns," he clarified before she could ask.

The girl inhaled her liquor, a wet cough as she choked— Voldemort inwardly grimaced at the reaction. 'There it is.' He took another swig from his glass, waiting until she could gather her bearings enough to speak.

"A new school?! What about Hogwarts?"

He swished the amber-coloured liquid around the rim, "Indeed. Though, to only call it a 'school' would be a disservice. It's meant to be more extensive than Hogwarts, housing children as young as three."

"Three—?!"

Harri straightened, mouth dropping into a rounded 'oh' at what he was hinting at. No parent in their right mind would let their three-year-old attend a magical boarding school— which meant that they had no say in the matter.

"You can't be serious! What about their parents?"

"I'm not cruel," he snapped back, grip tightening on the glass. "All parties involved will be obliviated. It'll be as though they never even had a magical child to begin with."

"Wha— this is madness! You can't just segregate children based on blood heritage—."

Crimson eyes slid over to her, a sharp look in them and a darkening around the irises— a telltale sign that she was encroaching upon dangerous territory. The silent warning was enough to make her jaw click close, an audible snap though she continued to scowl.

"You said it yourself, Harri. Muggleborns are at a disadvantage by the time they are introduced to the wizarding world. Eleven is far too late for them to adjust properly, especially when compared to their half or pureblooded classmates."

"Well, yeah, but I meant maybe introducing them sooner— not stealing them from their parents!"

"'Stealing'? '' he echoed, scoffing at the concept. "Do you even know what happens to most muggleborns? Psychologically speaking, that is. They grow up with fractured identities. By the time they receive their Hogwarts letter, they are either too acclimated to the muggle world to know what to do or were taught to hide their magic by their parents— most of them are even admitted to the infirmary during their first year for panic attacks. And that's the best-case scenario."

"But then we have cases of children who can't adjust," Voldemort's tone had taken on a solemn quality. "Cases in which a child was taught to suppress their magic. Do you know what they usually become? The few where it's more than just a minor psychological block? They develop an obscurus—a _parasitic_ _force_ , Harri. And, at that point, the child either dies on their own before adulthood or they have to be destroyed before the Statute of Secrecy is broken."

He tilted his head back in a quick swallow, "For those who have to live in both worlds, they exist in purgatory. In the wizarding world, they are so far behind that it's damn near impossible to catch up— you and I both know that struggle. We also know what it's like living in the muggle world after learning of our true identities. We can't use magic for months unless we want to trip the Trace, which can lead to a wand being snapped or expulsion, and we can't tell anyone what we are for the exact same reasons."

"It's time they took their place among their own kind," Voldemort reasoned, looking over to the girl who had fallen silent.

"But it's a bit extreme, don't you think?" she couldn't meet his eyes, the intensity held in them— rather, she looked to the glinting surface of the liquor for a distraction. "Some of them can be well-adjusted. I mean, look at Hermione."

He shook his head, "Your friend Miss Granger is in the minority. Even if the parents accept them, then what of their siblings? Their muggle relatives? Your own mother was a prime example of what happens when one sibling is blessed with magic and the other is not. Resentment thrives in the shadows of greatness."

"And we both know intimately how muggles can react when faced with things they do not, _cannot_ , understand," his words were heavy, his face unsmiling.

When those red, red eyes had landed on her, it was a wake of fire she could viscerally feel across her skin. And it was just that one simple allusion that drudged up the worst sorts of memories, ones that were suppressed but oh so easily coaxed out by the implications in his soft voice. She wished she could deny it, could find fault in his reasoning— to point out that their own tragic experiences weren't universal. But it was difficult when all she saw was every unkind hand and heard every harsh word, when she relived every burn, every bone-deep bruise, every angry welt. An endless, vile loop— _'Freak'_. Flashes of dusty spaces and barred windows, of blood on the steps and decapitated snakes. A stone in her stomach, bile rising. The malevolent whisper that pointed out her demons were long since vanquished, that she had personally signed their own death warrants, hadn't helped the nausea. A muted memory of broken bodies in the dungeons, the horrors of torture as her own pain was returned back to them tenfold. She took a long, deep sip, striving to ignore the fact her grip had turned weak, shaky— from the cold, she liked to imagine, though the study's fire was far from anaemic.

The trembling hadn't gone unnoticed by him. Voldemort took one look at her hands and knew what she was thinking without even having to peer into her mind. Slowly, he uncrossed his legs and the hand not holding his glass wrapped about her ankle— a gentle tug to encourage the drawn up leg to straighten out. He draped it across his lap, the other, having taken the hint, followed. A glance was spared down to them once they settled, idly noting the curve of her calves, the thinness of the ankles, the taper of her feet.

"Did you know that I grew up in the '40s?" he asked offhandedly, hand coming to rest on her shin.

"I was born in 1926. The Interwar Period," he had chuckled humourlessly to himself, the sound blackened, sardonic. "Not many orphans can say they were actually born _in_ the orphanage— but I had that _lucky_ privilege."

The ice cube clinked in his glass, a deafening sound. A log popped, a spray of crackling embers in the background— Voldemort continued to study the legs in his lap, thumb rubbing circles along the shin and noting the contrast of soft skin against hard bone. Truthfully, he wasn't even entirely sure why he was being so forthcoming with his past, with those blots and stains upon his youth— those secrets he had long since buried, memories he had been content to lock away and never revisit. But he figured, to some extent, it would be remiss of him to let her battle her demons alone— and maybe, just maybe, it would make her understand why this was important.

"Things hadn't fully recovered from the first war. And then the depression hit in '31. The system was overloaded with both those willingly surrendered by their parents and those who had lost them— Wool's wasn't an exception. They rationed nearly everything— food, clothes, water. Some turned to begging, some opted to become legitimate through low-paying labour. But most of us stole," his hand wandered down to her ankle, fingers skirting over the jut of bone. "It wasn't exactly the best of circumstances, admittedly. Those who became sick typically never recovered and those who were caught thieving rarely returned."

"The London after my first year was preparing for war. Raid shelters took the place of pharmacies, there were soldiers in the streets, anti-air guns on every corner. And the sirens— they were the worst part. At the end of the summer, all children were supposed to leave. 'Operation Pied Piper' they called it— but not us. No, the muggleborns, we had to stay because if we went, that meant we had no way of getting back to the Express. By the time I left, Germany had invaded Poland."

There was a darkness flickering in his gaze, a tick in the muscle of his jaw, "I had begged Dippet to let me stay at the school over the summer— he refused. August 9th, the Birmingham Blitz. August 24th and Oxford Street followed. The main event we all knew was coming— it was just a matter of _when_. Eight months of continuous bombing and, while I had Hogwarts to be my sanctuary during it, I was forced to eventually return."

He drained the remainder of the glass, the fire slipping down to his stomach and into his limbs doing little to cut the coldness that always accompanied such recollections. Even now, he could hear the screech of the sirens piercing the air, smell the choking scent of sulfur— the smoking carnage, the scorched rubble littering the streets where buildings once stood, tall and proud. Blackened corpses, their skin and sinew melted away to leave behind charred bones— a constant, looming reminder that Death was on the move, just waiting his turn to have his pound of flesh. That cloying taste of fear, those ever-rising tides of shadow that threaten to drown him, consume him— throw him into the abyss, forgotten. His hold tightened on her ankle, viselike and unrelenting as fingers impressed themselves into the cream of her skin— if it was painful, she hadn't given any indication. A strained inhale through his nose, a struggle to gather together his narrative and come back into the present.

"There were a few others, some in my year, some below, some upper, who were in the same position as I was. While I was lucky enough to return each year, they were not."

"I saw things that no child should ever have to. I saw the desperation of humanity, the cruelty muggles inflict upon one another. I was caught in the middle of _their_ war," his voice had dropped to a whisper. "And the most damning thing was that I couldn't use my magic. I couldn't rely on it to save me when I needed it, no matter how tempting it was. You see, I couldn't risk being expelled from Hogwarts, from having my wand snapped if the Trace was tripped— because I _needed_ to be able to go back."

"And that is precisely why I'm building this school for them. I don't ever want a magical child to be in a situation like that again, to be caught up in _muggle_ conflicts, to feel as—," the word he meant was 'helpless'— but it wouldn't form no matter how hard he tried, an acrid taste that refused to abate.

"I was not planning on using your letter without your permission first," a detached sense of guilt as he released her ankle, the handprint left behind an ugly bloom, "But it is a prime example of what can happen when a magical child is left to the whims of the muggle world. It would help people see the reality, especially if it came from you."

Harri looked on with mute horror, unable to formulate a coherent response. A silent tear had slipped past her lashes, a scorching path carved into her cheek. While his words were disquieting enough, it was what she had _felt_ from him that truly broke her. Their connection, whether he was aware of it or not, was raw, untempered— a living, sentient thing that brought with it a torrent of memories not entirely her own. She had seen everything, had been an unwilling participant to the atrocities of his formative years. And how damning it was. It flashed by at a dizzying speed, a blurred cycle of images. The mutilated bodies, the shrieking alarms, the suffocating smoke— the unholy aftermath signature of an acrimonious god. Something writhed about her heart, an uncomfortable squeeze as she recognised his emotions all too well. That fear she hadn't believed him capable of possessing, the desperation of a young boy unable to do anything about his circumstances but be swept along— a sense of helplessness she understood. And how less like Lord Voldemort did he seem right now— so far from that ineffable, deific man that casually moved the heavens to his design. Rather, it was Tom— just Tom, as broken and scarred as she.

And there was a nagging sensation, an urgency that she had to reach out before it was too late, before that vulnerable boy she had fallen for all those years ago disappeared once more. 

Abandoning her glass to the side table, the girl moved before he could blink— her legs straddled him, her arms wrapping about his shoulders for support. He had gone rigid, taken off guard— a hiss of a drawn breath when her face burrowed in the crook of his neck, a stark juxtaposition between the coolness of him and the warmth of her. Those thin arms constricted with a surprising amount of strength, body melding into his as though she sought to single-handedly ward off his demons, to become his personal shield.

"Okay," Harri whispered the word into his shoulder.

A moment passed where all she did was cling to him, striving to find solace in the slowness of his pulse, the heady scent of his cologne— it was a lulling tide, her fingers flexing against the broadness of his back. There was a brush against the dip of her waist, hesitant as though waiting to see if she would become startled, flee. When she hadn't, when there were no protests or objections, his arms circled warily, loosely about her torso— caging her in but not confining. No further words had been exchanged— an unspoken conversation passed only through the beating of their hearts and the steadfast rhythm of their breaths, a primal devotion written into every inhale, every exhale.

They had remained like that for an immeasurable amount of time, the fire slowly dying until it had become nothing more than smouldering ash in the mantle. Under the cover of darkness, the slivers of moonlight bore witness to the reunion of a split soul, a fractured half seeking out its twin and refusing to part. A moment of peace, of repose— a portion of the universe carved out just for two. 


	60. A Witch's Debut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> This chapter turned out to be....far longer than I originally intended and perhaps is a touch self-indulgent (I really love ballroom scenes and I can't help myself even though I truly didn't intend to write this much) but I hope you will all enjoy it nonetheless 💕 I had fun writing it and I hope it'll be a fun read for you guys as well-- lots of really good Tom and Harri interactions going on. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much to everyone who has been leaving me comments, bookmarking, interacting with me on my other platforms-- I really appreciate every single one of you and you guys truly make this whole writing process worth the effort 💕 You are all shining stars ✨
> 
> Enjoy!

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The morning of July 31st had been marked by a gentle summer breeze and not a cloud in sight— a perfectly fine sort of day that promised to reap only good tidings. Waking long before the household could, Harri passed the first few hours of her birthday alone, the rising sun her companion— the lilac sky was streaked with magentas and oranges, the aureole of light golden as it crested the horizon. Peaceful. And how curious was it that the quietest of moments always brought with them an interlude of introspection, how the most mundane could turn out to be the most magical. Like now, for instance. As the girl stood there, peeking out from the heavy silk of the drapes and past the dew-ladened panes, she marvelled at the fact today arrived at all. That, against every design of Fate, she had managed to survive to see the dawning of her 17th year— alive and all limbs intact, no less. ‘I bet Snape can’t believe it either,’ a good-natured scoff, a finger swiping across the misty glass— a streak was left behind in the moisture, cutting through it and turning the pad numb. In the distance was the reedy trill of the residential peacocks, an unapologetic declaration that it was time for the world to awaken. 

She stepped away from the window and allowed the curtain to resettle— the bedroom was bathed in dusky light once more, a second of serenity before the festivities could begin in earnest. It had been a few days since their conversation in the study, a heartfelt tête-à-tête that only the crackling mantle had borne witness to, and her ensuing promise to help in whichever way she could. Yet, despite that, Voldemort hadn’t said much more on the matter. Rather, he suggested it could be dealt with after her birthday, a claim— though she wasn’t quite sure how truthful it was— that he didn’t want to take away from the joy of the celebration. ‘Everyone’s taking this quite seriously, aren’t they?’ 

A hum as she nursed a cup of earl grey— a pot she had brewed herself and a fact that would leave the house-elves aghast upon learning— breathing in the fragrant curls of bergamot, her tongue scalded with the first sip. With a muttered curse, emerald eyes slid over to the ratty backpack abandoned on the coffee table. It had been waiting for her when she came back to what was, formally, known as ‘her room’, an embossed card attached:

> 'Your plant roommate asked me to give this to you. - D.M'

Harri hadn’t bothered to open it, too swept along with the final preparations for the gala to contemplate such. But now, finding herself quite alone and without distractions, there was a rising curiosity as to what it contained. Trinkets, for sure, but the bag had been packed months ago when she had thought she was going to the Burrow for the holidays— a plan which never came to fruition. And most of her old belongings weren’t ever retrieved to her knowledge. Not the oversized jumpers, not the crumpled school uniform, not her Gryffindor red-and-gold pyjamas— none of it. No, Voldemort had made quite certain she entered into this new life without any physical reminders of the past, with things only he bought for her and deemed appropriate. At this point, ‘possessive’ seemed too mild of a word. 

Another burning sip before she abandoned the cup, reaching for the shredded nylon backpack instead. It felt odd holding it, the texture rough against her palms— fingers brushed tentatively over the tarnished metal plaque, the stamped name of the brand faded with time. She had swiped it from the trash years ago when Dudley had thrown it out— in pristine condition nonetheless— because he ‘hated’ the maroon colour. Years ago when her life had been sustained by scraps and hand-me-downs, little things to accumulate in her hoard, things no one ever thought to miss— and how out of place did it look now in her room of sheer opulence. A dry swallow as she undid the drawstring tie, blindly reaching in. Near the top was cool metal, a rounded object— one of the many snitches she had kept as victory trophies. She always brought one with her to the Burrow so she and the Weasley siblings could have a game, Hermione their very reluctant referee. A carton of unopened Bertie Botts, a thought to bring them down to Ginny later. A deck of exploding snaps, the packaging wrinkled. One of the numerous sweaters Mrs. Weasley had knitted, a deep, deep pine green— her heart squeezed, a burst of bittersweetness.

But such reminiscence was scattered, dandelion wisps blown away by the slightest of wind, when she felt the silk pooled at the bottom. A light-weightedness to the material, a slippery feel that she didn’t even have to look to know what it was. ‘The invisibility cloak.’ A relic from her father, an heirloom kept within the Potter family for generations. Emerald eyes widened slightly, a bewildered, unseeing blink as her grip clenched and unclenched the fabric to truly confirm— but yes, it was actually there. She had assumed she would never see it again, that it had disappeared along with the rest of her things to some mysterious void.

A knock on the door, the quick succession of two raps.

Her gaze snapped to the silver handle, an odd, panicked desire that pleaded no one could know what she had. 

"Harri?" the muffled question. "It's time to get up."

And then she was frantically stashing the backpack under the couch, a difficulty to make it fit— it finally gave under the administration of a swift kick, the door being pushed inwards not a second later. A strained smile when Narcissa had rushed in, harrowed and afflicted, no doubt, by wrought, excited nerves. And yet, despite that, she still looked as beautiful and put together as always. White blonde hair piled up high and a donning a simple, cream dressing gown, the Malfoy matriarch was the spitting image of elegance even in the early morning hours.

"Har— oh! You're already awake!"

"Yeah, couldn't sleep," Harri offered up a half-baked excuse, trying to pass off the fact her heart was racing from excitement and nothing more.

A sympathetic quirk of full lips, a well-manicured hand helping her off the couch, "Well, it can't be helped, I suppose. I remember the night before my own 17th— the shadows under my eyes were next to impossible to conceal!” 

And then Narcissa was steering her towards the bathroom, tittering at the work that still needed to be accomplished before the evening. Harri, on the other hand, had to bite back a groan.

* * *

* * *

‘Work’ would have been a remissive description of the laborious routine she had been put through, a foreboding understanding that it was only the beginning. After soaking in a bath scented by rose petals, mercilessly scrubbed until she practically glowed, Narcissa had insisted on anointing rose oil upon her wrists and pulse points— and Harri, for the life of her, couldn’t understand why it was necessary. She refrained from making such a comment. 

Feeling rather raw, the girl had been ushered to the vanity, the silk of her robe a balm to the chafed skin— there was only a brief reprieve to eat when the elves had brought with them an assortment of jams, fruits and pastries. Harri had a few bites of an almond croissant before her stomach churned, a not-so-subtle warning— she settled for some dried apricots instead, a thoughtful chew as she fixated on the reflection of Narcissa in the mirror. There were pins held in the older woman’s mouth, her brows knitted together and a crease between them as she wrestled with a considerable length of auburn hair, fingers deftly working to braid and coil the strands.

“You’re sure you remember the procedure?” Narcissa mumbled past the hairpins.

"Of course— we’ve only talked about it a million times," Harri responded.

She winced as the blunt head of a bobby pin stabbed into her scalp.  
"After you finish the formal ceremony," the older woman carried on anyway, "the first dance is given to our Lord. Normally, that honour would be given to the Head of the House but seeing as my cousin is unable to fulfil that duty, His Majesty will be substituting. The remaining dances can be given to whomever— so long as you refrain from dancing with the same person more than three times. Merlin only knows we do not need that sort of scandal at the moment. And the concluding dance—"

"With Voldemort," Harri finished for her, a playful roll of her eyes. 

"And the athame? Once you get to the podium, you know what to do?"

"Yes, Narcissa— don't worry. I won't forget."

The chair was spun around, a flurry of brushes— every once in a while, Narcissa would take a step back, humming in approval at whatever colour she had picked out. The afternoon was stretching on, the chimes of the grandfather clock and the lengthening, slanted rays of sunshine ever-present reminders that time was slipping away. The drag across her lips, the tacky feel of a tint. A dab on her cheeks, the soft bristles leaving behind a dusting on the highpoints. The pull on her lids, a streak of kohl in its wake. Harri wisely suppressed a yawn when pale eyes snapped to her in a silent warning, the look in them a clear enough message— ‘Don’t you dare.’ And she wondered how much longer she would be in this chair, her joints stiffening and patience ever so waning. But then, much to her immense relief, Narcissa had stepped back, picking free a curled wisp in a last-minute adjustment.

"There! That should do."

A hand mirror, gilded and dainty, was pressed into her open palm. Harri angled it towards the vanity, a low whistle at the reflection. A halo of a braided crown had been interwoven into the upper-half of her hair, the design becoming more and more intricate the longer she stared. Resting above the twists and nestled safely into their centre was a headpiece depicting three erupting stars— the largest, eight-pointed, was in the middle while two smaller ones, four-pointed, flanked their companion. They caught the light, encrusted with what, Harri had a suspicion, were actual diamonds. Connected to each outer-star were three looping chains, a fine closely-knit silver, and as she tilted her head, she saw they led to another twin, smaller but no less fine, that rested near her temples. The remaining length of her hair had been curled and left loose, a cascade of fire down her back. Interspersed into the flowing coils were pins of pale gems— she vainly hoped they were merely crystals— that glinted with every slight movement. ‘If only Ginny could see this.’ In the quite literal sense, her hair was dripping wealth and Harri was hesitant to know what the dress would look like in turn.

Her attention shifted to give a cursory glance over her face, thankful enough that the simple makeup balanced out the ornate flamboyancy of her hair. Full lips had been left next to bare, only the slightest tint of rose to them, and her cheeks were brought to life with a modest amount of blush. A pale shimmer decorated her lids, a streak of dark brown liner bringing definition to her eyes while still keeping them soft, innocent almost. A mercy, she figured, that Narcissa had abstained from going overboard— that she was still, more or less, recognisable as herself.

A hand landed on her shoulder, a gentle squeeze and a small smile, “You look absolutely stunning, Harri. Truly the belle of the ball.” 

She returned the smile, unsure of what to say, when there was a knock on the door— both women looked over when a servant entered, a floating garment box trailing close behind. The elf announced a package from Madam Malkin’s had arrived, the giddiness of Narcissa barely contained as she ordered it to be left on the bed. And Harri couldn’t stop the grin from growing as the older woman rushed over once the house-elf departed, an uncharacteristic, childlike anticipation that took years off her face.

“You know,” Harri commented lightly, “I’d say you’re more excited about this than I am.” 

Narcissa responded with an embarrassed clearing of her throat, “Right, yes. Well.”

"I'm kidding, Narcissa," Harri lifted the box’s top off and peeled back the layers of protective tissue paper. "Be as excited as you want.”

Setting the lid aside, there was a quiet gasp next to her— and Harri found herself wholly agreeing with the initial reaction. What first caught her eye was the fabric itself, how it was, seemingly, _made_ of diamonds— blinding, shimmering, starlight itself captured and formed into a dress. Tentative, nervous hands went to pick it up, worried about sullying it, and she blinked in surprise at the unexpected fluidity to the material. It had a silky feel to it, despite her expectations of it being stiff, a coolness that she was already imagining against her skin. And even in the dimness of the bedroom, the filtered streams of light seeping past the sheer inner-drapes, it _shone_. It seemed to attract and absorb the light for its own gain, glinting with a thousand refractions— a heavy swallow when she contemplated the price. The second detail Harri noticed, and perhaps the most alarming, was the neckline— though, perhaps, it would be more appropriate to say the lack thereof. Mesh, the exact same shade as her skin, composed the front half, a cluster of the flat-back gems coalescing where she supposed her chest was meant to be, providing the barest modicum of modesty— such a notion was severely undercut, however, by the sharp v that extended down to a rather considerable degree. It was a sleeveless design, the back, as she vainly turned it around in hopes she had accidentally opened the box the wrong way, equally nonexistent. And while she did find the material to be beautiful, the scandalous design was enough to warm her ears. ‘I’m going to kill him,’ a passing thought as she allowed Narcissa to take it from her hands.

“Well, Malkin was certainly right about our Lord’s taste,” Narcissa muttered, helplessly awestruck. “Come, let’s try it on.” 

And as Narcissa helped her into the gown, Harri’s impressions were plenty. She couldn’t deny the craftsmanship behind it, how Malkin had done an exemplary job in designing the dress to fit her— it clung like a second skin. But there was an ungodly amount of fabric to manoeuvre, a featherlight charm surely having been cast to keep it from weighing her down. And if she had deemed it to be scandalous in the box, it was positively _sinful_ on. The colourless jewels were scattered sparsely about her shoulders and collarbones, making it appear as though they had been embedded into her skin— and she had been correct in assuming the concentration of them were around her chest. They increased in frequency and in closeness as they dipped down towards her navel, eventually bleeding away into the rest of the shimmering fabric. However, the plunge cut a clean path through them, shattering the illusion of propriety as she was exposed down to her third rib. The bodice was fitted and supported with boning, accentuating the sharp curve of her waist, while the slit on the left side of the skirt bared most of her leg nearly to the upper-thigh. 

The bulk of the dress, however, came from the gathered train attached to the beginning jut of her hips, the material flaring out behind her as an added attachment to the mermaid silhouette. It trailed on the floor, an obscene amount of the same sparkling material that rustled as she shifted in front of the mirror. On the train’s edges were the same jewels from the bodice, scattered in intervals to bleed upwards, climbing like curling vines. Harri half-twisted to take in the back, a discomforting sight to see the smooth curve of her spine and the blades of her shoulders on display for all to see. ‘Definitely going to kill him.’

"I dare say," Narcissa breathed out in wonder, fluffing out the train. "No other witch will ever be able to compete after this."

A strained smile on rosy lips. It was beautiful, that much Harri couldn’t deny— and the material was stunning against her complexion. The silvery-whiteness of it made her own colourations look that much richer in turn, a blank canvas offset by the redness of her hair and the greenness of her eyes. It did paint a pretty enough picture, even if a shocking amount of her was exposed as a consequence. Her hand shot down to grip Narcissa’s upper arm as the woman unexpectedly lifted one of her ankles, sliding the foot into a shoe. Even they had suffered no expense, an off-white satin with a cage of silver leaves crawling up the metallic heel. Harri debated if Voldemort had picked them out as well.

"So," Harri asked, lifting the other foot, "will you be the one walking with me to the podium?"

A frown darkened Narcissa’s expression, a spark of unease as she set down the girl’s foot, “Well— unfortunately, no. Typically, it would be done by your mother or female guardian. However, considering the uniqueness of your _circumstances_ , the duty reverts to the eldest—” 

"Me," a chime from the door.

Harri peered over her shoulder, nearly groaning at the dark-haired woman leaning in the frame, her wine-red lips stretched into a Cheshire grin. Bellatrix was donned in a burgundy silk that was tailored to be suggestively form-fitting— however, for once, she was relatively covered up. Though, true to her usual self, the Death Eater did have an impressive amount of cleavage on display, the plunging neckline drawing the eye to her more well-endowed assets. The waist on the dress had been cinched with a golden cage of writhing snakes, a befitting symbolism considering her personality. ‘Bloody great.’ 

"You?" Harri echoed suspiciously.

"Me," Bellatrix repeated. "As the eldest woman in the Black family, it's my duty to escort you. Oh cheer up, Harrikins— it'll be fun!"

"Doubt it," Harri muttered under her breath.

In the distance, the grandfather clocked signalled the end of the 17th hour, the beginnings of the evening. Narcissa looked fretfully between her sister and the younger girl, a nagging worry she shouldn’t leave the two alone despite herself not being dressed. A well-founded concern in retrospect, considering the last time had resulted in a destroyed dining table and shattered windows. And she, of all people, intimately knew what a menace her eldest sister could be when she so desired— an antagonising force that thrived off chaos and flared tempers.

"Cissy, why, you're not even ready!" 

"Oh, oh yes. Well, I still have to finish here with Harri and—"

"I can take care of her. Go on," Bellatrix was steering her sister firmly towards the door, a joviality in her voice that only bespoke of mischief.

And before Narcissa could edge in a word otherwise, the door had clicked closed behind her. With an aimless, tuneless hum, Bella crossed the room to the open jewellery box on the nightstand, fingers grazing the gem-inlaid pieces wedged between the plush rows. She was aware of those curse-green eyes following her, the atmosphere of the room not quite hostile but close— it was enough to make her almost smile. Plucking a necklace from its resting place with a sharp noise of approval, measured strides carried her to where Harri was still lingering in front of the mirror.

"Despite what you may think, I _do_ take this seriously, you know," her voice was soft, a sharpness held in dark eyes. "However distant, you are now a Black. And that means I have no intention of seeing you make a fool of yourself."

Bellatrix draped the necklace across the younger girl’s throat, finding some amusement that, despite Harri wearing heels, she still had the advantage of height. The piece was a pretty, dainty thing of silver and teardrop diamonds, the lowest of them grazing the hollows of her collarbones— flashy without being too overwhelming. After all, one look at the dress, her hair, and it wasn’t difficult to guess what her Lord’s vision was for the girl’s image tonight— untouchable wealth. Royalty. A giggle to herself when dark eyes lifted to meet guarded emerald ones in the mirror, the twitch she had given when the chilled metal met her skin. ‘So jumpy.’

"You've changed, Harrikins. There's something different about you now. _Darker_ ," Bellatrix fixed the clasp, watching the turned profile for any signs of denial— she was met with a guarded mask that had her humming with approval.

Bellatrix rested clawed nails on slight shoulders, lips quirking into a smirk, "Should I give you some advice then, from one woman to another? Something that dear old Cissy probably hasn't taught you yet?”

Narrowed eyes slid questioningly to her but Bellatrix ignored them, dark gaze drifting down to the exposed back, the expanse of unmarred skin. Her own had been like that, once upon a time— in the days before she rotted in Azkaban, before she had become a soldier. But now she was littered with scars, ones that couldn’t be so easily erased— and some that could. Such as the one running down the length of her face, the jagged blemish her Lord had chosen as punishment. An ever-present reminder of her failure, a silent warning not to do it again. The pointed tip of her nail dragged lightly down the ridge of Harri’s spine, following the curve of it. And truly, she couldn’t blame her Lord for his current fixation with the girl, for his wandering eye— it was understandable to a degree. After all, Bella had decades of experience in dealing with the realm of men, intimately knowing their afflictions, their predilections towards new things. Young things— _innocent_ things. And, at least this way, he hadn’t strayed too far, was still well within her reach the second he opted to seek the comfort and ease of a relationship forged by the passage of time.

"I see something of myself in you, Harri. And, because of that, I know exactly what's going to happen the second you sign your name in the compendium,” the slightest pressure put into the touch but not enough to leave behind any physical markers. "Men are going to throw themselves at you. Oh yes, a pretty little lamb like yourself, how could they resist? They'll be lining up at the troughs, eager to own your affection. They'll want to keep you, chain you, break you— shape you to fit their warped, little fantasies.”

“Some are going to try through sweet words and tenderness— I’m sure that’s the kind Cissy has told you about. They’ll paint a pretty life, one of love, marriage, children. A perfect house,” Bellatrix bit out a sardonic laugh, voice dropping to a whisper as though it was a secret to be had between two friends. “But some are going to be crueler, more direct. They might try to use your body against you, might twist your mind or target your weaknesses, your emotions— manipulate you. See, some men don’t like things they can’t predict or control— and for women, like you and I who abide by our own rules, they get scared. And that fear, it does _terrible_ things to a man and his ego.”

Harri watched as the reflection of those wine-red lips parted to reveal gleaming teeth, a promise that if you looked away for a second, they would be buried in your throat. She tried to stop the shudder, to steel herself against the threat of clawed nails and the ominous warning of things she hadn’t even given thought to before. That Bellatrix, for once, was surprisingly sane, her eyes clear and bright— and how terrifying it was, a damning oracle delivering an equally damning prophecy. 

“But remember, you have all the power in the end. And never, ever, be afraid to show them your teeth,” there was a distant chime and Bellatrix reached around to lightly tap her cheek. “And I believe that’s our cue.”

* * *

* * *

Bellatrix was leading them down unfamiliar halls, the winding corridors belonging to a portion of the manor Harri had yet to explore. It was strangely quiet, an oppressive sort of silence— and she only had the clicking of their heels to keep her thoughts grounded. They had paused in front of a panel, a door carved into its ivory plaster. Harri eyed the Parisian embellishments set against powder blue paint, the raised scrolls and flourishes, with some apprehension— there was a squeeze on her forearm, fleeting but forceful. Emerald eyes looked down to where their arms were linked, the black nails of Bella a wicked gleam in the evening light, before wandering up to the woman’s turned profile— an alarming thought that they truly did look somewhat similar. That rosebud mouth was one Harri easily recognised, the same slope of their foreheads, the same arches in their necks. Even their faces both now bore a scar, albeit in different forms.

"Don't lose your nerve," Bellatrix muttered before pushing the concealed door inwards.

A stilted inhale and her feet reluctantly followed. It was barely lit inside the antechamber, the heavy iron sconces secured to the stone walls flickering with bluebell flames that washed everything in a cool tint. Laid out before them was a running carpet of maroon velvet, a podium at its end showcasing an open tome, a bowl carved from obsidian, and an athame knife that, even from this distance, looked lethal— the word 'sacrificial altar’ sprang to mind. Though, perhaps more unnerving than the knife, her heels sinking into the plush fabric underfoot and the soft glide of the train echoing in the barren space, were the women lining the path. They were outfitted in black robes, sunk low to the ground, their faces half-covered by fine, silver masks. It didn’t take Harri long to make the association, heart beating in her throat— ‘They must be the wives of his Death Eaters.’ Positioned near the end of the line, closest to the pedestal, was a familiar shock of blonde hair, a calming sight— ‘Narcissa.’ And as she forced her attention forward, to keep her chin lifted, Harri briefly wondered if this sort of reverence was commonplace for all debuts or if it was because it was her— there was a nagging feeling it was the latter.

They had reached the podium far too quickly, Bellatrix unravelling their arms and stepping away— Harri shivered from the absence. Before her the yellowed pages of the tome were open, rows upon rows containing the names of legacies extant through the adult, female line. Some, she noted, were bright red in colouration while others were faded or completely black— Harri guessed those with darkened names were long since departed from this world. The flourished scrawl of ‘House of Black’ titled one section, the last signature written in rust— ‘Narcissa Malfoy née Black’. Her attention drifted to the carved obsidian bowl, the azure fire flickering in a distorted image of itself against the polished surface— soon enough, she would join the others in this book, would become integrated into its ancient history. Immortalised.

The dagger was passed into a reluctant palm, the weight surprising. Stares, intense and too many to be comfortable, settled over her, boring into her back, those onyx eyes of Bellatrix watching in avid suspense. The handle of the knife was carved from bone, whose or what she did not want to know, a ruby interlaid into the hilt— the blade itself was carved from matching obsidian, a nasty glint that relayed its edge hadn’t been dulled throughout the years. Harri braced herself, Narcissa’s distant words coming back— ‘Birthdays are a time of transformation.’ And a transformation it would be— she was finally affirming the truth of herself, her ancestry.

She pressed the tip unflinchingly against her lifeline, a sharp inhale at the bead of blood that erupted under the cruel point. A slow drag against the curve, steadily following the path as crimson welled in its wake— upon arriving at the branching fork near the bottom, Harri only debated for a second on which to follow. Fingers curling inwards, she squeezed the droplets into the bowl— they hissed violently, a frantic sizzling though the stone remained cool to the touch.

"I, Harri James Potter, daughter of Lily Potter née Evans and James Potter, descendant of Dorea Potter née Black and Charlus Potter, hereby submit my name to the Sacred 28 compendium," she declared, letting the blood flow. "In doing so, I pledge fealty to the Black family, vowing to uphold its honoured name and continue its legacy as my solemn duty. On my blood, this I promise."

Bellatrix had taken the knife from her, slicing her own palm without a second thought— her blood joined Harri's in the bowl, intermixing, the shade just a touch darker, "I, Bellatrix Lestrange née Black, eldest of the Black line, hereby accept this young woman's pledge and her sacrifice. On my blood, this I acknowledge."

From behind them, a unison of voices rang out, the sound thunderous in the resonating chamber, “On their blood, this we bear witness.”

Those specks of red suddenly melted through the stone, slipping through the pores and invisible cracks. Harri wondered where it had gone when a movement on the tome’s next available line drew her eye— and there, magically appearing in her own slanted penmanship was her name. A startling shade of red, fresh and bright, she watched in fascination at the looping of the ‘a’, the dot missing over the ‘i’, the run-together double ‘t’s. It was as though she had signed it herself though she most certainly had not. The polite applause in the background went largely unnoticed, the tingling in her palm an otherwise distraction. Where she had cut herself was knitting back together, the lifeline deeply etched and the once-fork at its end disappearing— only one solid, continuous path remained, her future determined.

"Now then," a wide grin and Bellatrix’s hand reached for Harri's elbow, pulling her through a door behind the podium. “Let’s go have some fun.”

* * *

* * *

He had been waiting for their arrival outside of the ballroom’s imposing double doors, their height so grand that they nearly reached the ceiling. Flanking either side of him were the respective husbands of Narcissa and Bellatrix, their voices low in hushed conversation. At the sound of approaching footsteps, the men had turned in unison— a half-realised breath caught in her throat, the muttered acknowledgements of ‘my Lord’ muddled. 

The Dark Lord had kept true to his usual monochromatic palette, the varying shades of black standing out against his pale complexion. Yet, despite the one colour he was entirely composed of, there were nuances to the texture of his suit that made it seem all that richer, that more intriguing. Set against the satin button-down was a vest of matte velvet, single-breasted with a row of polished buttons— and even in the hall’s lighting, it was difficult to miss the sheen of its embroidery. Metallic charcoal thread had been interwoven as a brocade, a swirl of subtle designs. The tie about his neck was cut from the same pattern, the formal robes forgone in favour of a matte suit jacket instead— it was a swallowtail style, the split hems grazing the backs of his knees and held closed with a polished waist chain. And, for the first time she could recall, his hair had been styled, pushed back— the boyish charm of that one curl was exchanged for something more cutting, something sharper. It was, truly, a devastating image. While the man had always been attractive, tonight he was an entirely different entity— and Harri considered if ‘Sin’ ever took a human form, it would come in the way of this version of Tom Riddle.

Eyes, far too red and far too heated, landed on her, the left corner of his mouth lifting. There it was, the barest flickers in their bond— satisfaction tinged with something darker, something she instinctively recognised but had a hard time ascribing it a word. It made it impossible to swallow— and she may as well have chewed on chalk when that darkening gaze flickered down appreciatively, a slow drag back up. 

"Harri," his greeting bordered on parseltongue, the 'r's softly dragged out— a shiver up her spine.

Though she hated to admit it, she was more than certain if she tried to speak right now, nothing coherent would come out. Thankfully, he was in a humouring mood, extending the crook of his arm instead— smug triumph joined in the background of their connection, colouring their shared canvas. Looping her arm with his, hand resting lightly on the cord of his forearm, she tried to gather her wits. ‘C’mon, Harri. You see him everyday for Merlin’s sake— so what if he’s dressed up and changed his hairstyle and is looking at you like that.’ The panicked inner-voice didn’t really inspire much in the way of confident composure, her gaze bouncing down to where their arms were interlinked. A seemingly random thought crossed her mind that they were opposites tonight— that she was dressed solely in silver and he in black.

The doors swung open— a blessed distraction.

A wall of cameras greeted them, a strobing of flashes and acrid curls of smoke as their moving likenesses were captured— Harri forced a smile all the same, blinking back the sunbursts superimposed behind her lids. It was a fleeting onslaught, a momentary battle waged before the reporters dispersed to concede to them, a daze as Voldemort guided her into the ballroom. She couldn’t help but gape.

Grecian pillars carved from ivory, massive and grand, had been constructed about the room’s perimeters, guarding sentinels that towered above them. Vines of dark ivy encased the columns, climbing up higher and higher as full white roses bloomed in the empty pockets between the leaves— Harri craned her neck, a choked noise upon seeing that the pillars spanned all the way to the ceiling. And then she noticed that there was, seemingly, no roof above their heads. Rather than the gold-plated crown moulding she had been accustomed to seeing, it was a stretch of a clear night sky. A rich shade of navy, almost black, the inky backdrop was sporadically riddled with twinkling pinpoints of white— and even as he guided her along, Harri marvelled at the enchanted ceiling, at how lifelike it appeared. The stars were alive, winking down at them, the constellations perfectly aligned.

It was the clearing of a throat that finally drew her attention, wide emerald eyes snapping to Voldemort— there was obvious delight held in those scarlet depths, a pointed lift of a brow. Harri glanced over her shoulder, a belated realisation that a crowd had gathered on the edges of the dancefloor— the slightest tilt of his head, a nonverbal cue that she tried to process what it meant. ‘Oh, shit. Right.’ She dropped to a curtsy, trying to rely on muscle memory to mimic the pose Narcissa had attempted to drill into her. A low sweep nearly to the ground, head dipped demurely, a graceful tilt of an arched neck— the portrayal of such elegance was slightly ruined, however, by her quiet, gleeful gasp. Before, she had been too busy admiring the ceiling, too enraptured by the loveliness of it to notice, but the polished tiles of the floor were obscured by swirls of thick mist. The haze was tinged with the barest hints of gold, a lazy, rolling motion that reminded her of one thing— ‘clouds.’ They were going to be _dancing_ on clouds. A giddy revelation, a wild fantasy she didn’t even know she had until now.

Voldemort extended a hand to her and Harri gratefully accepted it as she rose. Abruptly, his other palm splayed across her mid-back, the touch an electrifying jolt on her bare skin— a momentary stupor, his smirk lifting higher as he gently squeezed their interlaced fingers. Prompted into action, her hand lifted to rest upon his shoulder. The first chords of a waltz filled the air from an unknown source, the swells of its melody carrying— he took the first step and she followed.

"I see you've finally overcome your greatest foe— _cameras_ ," his tease was a low whisper, a leading push across the floor. "You didn't faint this time."

Harri watched him with incredulity, the way that rakish smile hadn't lessened— she sniped back with a level of good-natured contempt, "I didn't _faint_ last time, you git. It seems that your old age is finally catching up with you."

A low chuckle on his end as he directed her into a spin, the pace of the music sweeping them along. The enchanted ground beneath them parted for the glide of her skirts, a dazzling display of refractions of light as she twirled— the vision she made in the dress was far better than any he might have imagined. And he couldn’t abstain from the urge to let his eyes wander, darting down to the shocking plunge of the neckline and the dip of her cleavage covered with scattered gems. ‘Far better.’ She hadn’t seemed to notice him openly studying her, far too enamoured with the room’s decor— he forced himself to look up, to focus his attention elsewhere. Crimson stare shifted beyond her, observing how their audience was attending to their dance with rapt attention— and he knew just who they were all looking at. A burst of possessive contentment at the development, an overriding gratification that the object of their interest belonged only to him in the moment— his very own diamond kept tantalisingly out of their reach.

"And would you look at that? She _can_ dance without stepping on my toes!"

"Yeah, well," she muttered, gracefully returning to the standard position from the spin as the train whirled behind her. Emerald eyes squinted past him to where Narcissa was watching from the sidelines, a napkin wrung between her manicured hands. “I think Narcissa would actually murder me if I did.”

"Ah, yes. I believe you would be correct in that assumption— she seems rather nervous, doesn't she?"

The rising crescendo of the refrain, an unexpected liveliness to the music as the tempo changed. The hand on her back flexed before dancing down to her waist, a featherlight brush— the other dropped from her palm to join its twin on the opposite side. Alarmed green eyes snapped to his, panicked at the deviation from the choreography she had memorised with Barty’s help— a soft gasp as he lifted her into the air. An enthusiastic applause from their spectators intermixed with the music, arising murmurs of appreciation that blended into white noise— her fingers sunk into the muscles of his shoulders, a vain attempt to steady herself as her feet left the ground. And Harri wasn’t quite sure whether to be impressed by the unexpected show of strength or to be unnerved that he was clearly intent on adding his own flair to what should have been a standard waltz— that she wasn’t prepared to know what step should come next. Scarlet eyes lightened a few shades in their mirth, apparently finding her attempts to keep outwardly calm hilarious— Harri resisted the urge to groan at his theatrics when he lowered her back down.

Thankfully, and much to her immense relief, he seamlessly blended them back into the familiar routine, not missing a beat himself— she stumbled once to keep up. When his hands repositioned themselves, one returning to her awaiting palm, it was to find the other on her back much, much lower than when their dance had initially begun.

“Not funny!” she hissed. “Are you trying to kill Narcissa?!”

"Oh, come now, Harri. I thought it was."

She fixed a mutinous glare on him— the indignation quickly faded, however, when his thumb brushed over a knob in her spine, dangerously close to the junction where her tailbone began. Harri considered it a small mercy that the dress at least had the decency to stop there, to not put her entire backside on display. And though she tried to ignore that hand’s existence, to not hyperfixate on its weight, when she looked up to see how intently he was studying her, it was futile. Her skin warmed, their bond lively and bright from his bleed-through.

"Was this even all necessary?” she sought a distraction, glancing around the room instead. “I mean— wait, is that statue pouring champagne!?" 

On the next spin, Harri had caught sight of a towering marble fountain in the corner, a woman carved out of stone and standing amidst a basin shaped like a scallop. She looked suspiciously like Aphrodite, the loose dress wrapped about her and intricate curls magically animated to sway— it was as though she were being caressed by an ocean’s breeze though none was to be found. A jug rested between her hands, golden liquid cascading out and spilling into the shell below. 

The Dark Lord pulled her closer, their chests flushed— she could feel the vibration as he laughed, "Of course it is, Harri. We _are_ royalty, after all."

They broke apart just as the music ended— he bowed and she returned in a shallow curtsy, the zealous clapping signalling the denouement to their opening dance. Harri straightened, ready to step away when he had unexpectedly grabbed her hand, brushing the knuckles with his mouth in a barely-there kiss that had her pulse skip unwittingly. And there was an understanding that this part wasn’t playing to the script either— that if her first dance had been with Sirius as the head of her house, this most certainly wouldn’t be happening.

"Not to mention any excuse to see a beautiful woman in a beautiful dress is worth the effort," Voldemort returned to his towering height, hand still firmly gripping hers.

And sure, perhaps he was teasing her more than typical— but the gaiety of the night somehow made her flustered reactions all the more worth it. That the pale silver of the gown made her blushing even more enticing, more tempting, an irrational need to showcase his triumph in eliciting such reactions— to make those present understand that any possible connection ever forged with her would always be inferior in comparison. His very own star— a treasure they would never know. 

Voldemort led her off the dance floor as others began to stream in, the clicking of her heels behind him rushed as she struggled to match his strides. He spared a glance back to her, the strangest sort of warmth blooming at her astonishment, how she was still trying to soak everything in. That earlier triumph only grew, a sated primal desire that wanted to smugly point out that ‘see? I can provide for you better than anyone else.’ Though, the ability to voice such a thought quickly escaped him, mesmerised by those auburn curls every time she craned her neck— the diamond pins captured the light, sparkling, the chains on the ornate headpiece swaying. He made a note to give his compliments to Narcissa later.

They were heading towards the raised dais positioned near the back of the room, its white marble steps adorned with a runner carpet of deep green velvet and scattered rose petals, the dark throne atop awaiting its master. Ivy covered columns, miniatures of the ones about the room, circled the platform, their heights disappearing into the illuminated, starry sky above. It was where he intended for them to stay for the night, two young gods retiring from the masses to observe the frivolities of humanity from afar— and if such a notion was spurred on by covetous envy to keep her to himself, who could blame him?

"Come," he said. "We have to greet the French monarch."

It was on the second step that she had gotten the message, her face crumpling slightly and the traces of a frown upon rose-painted lips. That look spoke volumes— playing hostess was the last thing she wanted to do. He paused on the third stair, a war of conflicting interests in his mind. A tongue ran across his canines in contemplation, the energy clinging to her anxious as she looked behind her with blatant longing— a sigh under his breath, a distant thought wondering when he had gotten so complaisant when it came to his horcrux.

"I suppose," his words were slow, those doe-like eyes fixed on him with curious hope, "I could greet him on my own. That is if you would prefer to look around for a bit longer."

* * *

* * *

Harri was weaving through the thickets of the crowd, plastering on a smile every time someone offered up their congratulations. And the more she walked about the ballroom, the more she was taken back with the little, unassuming details. The bouquets that littered every inch of the walls and corners, with their arrangements of pristine white lilies, cream-coloured snapdragons, towering larkspurs, and ivory carnations, looked as though they had cost a small fortune alone— and she didn’t even want to imagine how great of an expense this gala had been. The clouded floor beneath her feet parted in swirls as she meandered about, climbing up her ankles in playful, cooling puffs and dancing joyously over the dress’s train— she still couldn’t comprehend how, exactly, the effect had been accomplished. Overhead, free-floating orbs of light cast the room in a soft, romantic glow, a warming presence seeking to add to the ambience alongside the phantom music carried out by an invisible orchestra. The air about the space was heavily perfumed with the scent of flowers, the opposite wall consisting of multiple, glass French doors that led out onto the veranda— they were opened to welcome the mild summer breeze, their thresholds outlined with garlands of flowers and gold, metallic leaves. In the distance, the manicured lawn was littered with lanterns, flickering torches to stave off the encroaching darkness. And everywhere she looked, those in attendance were outfitted in finery— a kaleidoscopic array of colours and heavily ladened with jewels. It reminded her of a scene taken directly from a fairytale.

She had finally paused by the Aphrodite serving champagne, taking a flute and perusing the banquet table flaunting an array of refreshments. Pastries, intricate confections, savoury appetisers, porcelain cornucopias overflowing with fruits, some of which she had never seen before— a spread fit for a gathering of the gods and far too much even for the number of guests present. ‘Are those gold grapes?’ Harri plucked one, a thoughtful chew as the taste of lemonade burst upon her tongue.

"Merlin be damned," a low whistle from behind her. "He really went all out, didn't he?"

Whirling around, she saw a blond emerge from the crowd, his hair slicked back and dressed in an all-white suit. A warm smile, "Draco!”

He had taken his own glass from the supply hovering near the basin, eyes turning owlish as he finally had the opportunity to observe her up close. From a distance, he had seen that the gown was backless, the contrast of the glittering fabric against her skin hard to miss— it was just unexpected for the front to be equally as revealing, if not more. And though he had already profusely apologised for the fitting incident, Draco almost felt the need to do so again at the mental images being conjured, the amount of her bared working against him. A quick drink, he unthinkingly reached for the necklace, lightly tracing the teardrop gems that grazed her collarbones— an incredulous shake of his head.

"Well, at least the diamond industry won't go out of business anytime soon. Bloody hell, it's just excessive at this point," he had given a derisive scoff, eyeing the jewellery as he took another swig.

"Trust me, I know," she agreed, the bubbles sliding down her throat a welcomed sensation. "But be honest, how bad was it?"

"Regarding—?"

"The waltz! I hate dancing with him," she complained, plucking another grape off its vine. "He's so stupidly graceful that I feel like a blundering idiot."

Draco hummed as though deliberating, "Well I wouldn't say 'blundering'— I've definitely seen worse. You were 'heavy footed', at best.”

Harri gaped at him with feigned outrage, "You-!"

A sharp, playful nudge of her shoulder against his, a shake of her head that sent a spray of curls flying. Draco noticed her glass had been drained, reaching for another from the statue and passing it to her. They were separated out from the masses, hovering on its fringes— and he was grateful that, for once, it was just the two of them. That no one was busy watching them, the suffocating presence of the adults blissfully absent. It had been so long since they had an opportunity to be together, joking and mockingly chastising the other— an easy, amenable sort of banter that, now more than ever, he was certain he could only have with her. Draco smiled, a quick little grin, as he returned the shove, shoulder pressed against hers— he tried to not dwell on how warm she was, how her skin absolutely _burned_ through the thinness of his dress shirt. How alive and radiant she felt. Long legs crossed at their ankles as he leaned against the table, arms folding over his chest but not willing to move away.

"Oh relax, Potter," he angled for reassurance, a tilt of his chin gesturing to the clouded dancefloor. "You were perfectly fine out there. Graceful, even."

And then a roguish grin flourished, those blue eyes of his glinting.

"There's a reason why I always asked if you were training for the ballet," he said nonchalantly. "You probably would’ve made a better dancer than a seeker.”

A suspended moment of disbelief before she threw her head back, an unrestrained bout of laughter uninhibited with the encouragement of alcohol. It was a high, melodious sound, a flash of white teeth as tears sprung to the corners of her eyes, a buoyancy in her chest at his sheer audacity— she hiccuped, trying to get it under control when questioning glances were directed their way. 

"You, Draco Malfoy," she bit out between giggles, "are an incorrigible ass!"

"Oh, please, you know you miss me despite my apparent shortcomings."

She didn't deny it— and how that grin stretched even further. Another swallow and he turned his head towards her, "Though I am curious— what was it like?"

Harri smoothed out the front of her dress, "What do you mean?"

"The whole ceremony thing. Mother's been terribly secretive about it."

"Oh, _that_ . Well," she hummed, swirling the alcohol in the flute. "Very cultish— I would not recommend. I walked in and they were all wearing masks and curtsying at me. At _me_ , Draco. Felt like I spouted three heads or something. They wouldn't even look me in the eye, your mum included!"

He mulled over her admission, jaw clicking and a tinge of bitterness in his voice, "Well, it’s not surprising, all things considered."

"Hm?"

"Think about it, you're the closest thing our Lord has to an heir at the moment. They’re playing it safe until he either marries, which probably is going to be— nevermind."

Shrewd green eyes traced over his turned profile, striving to understand why, exactly, his mood had darkened unexpectedly. Turning to stare out into the colourful sea of swaying bodies, her mind scrambled for another topic, to return them back to the congenial atmosphere from earlier. 

"Did you have anything like this?" she gestured with her glass towards the crowd before them.

“What? Oh. No. For men, we turn 17 without any of this pomp. Mother will throw me a soiree later but certainly nothing to this— _extent_. Like bloody hell, have you seen your gift table?”

Harri squinted past the bobbing heads to the other side of the room where a table had been positioned, overflowing with wrapped boxes of various sizes and colours— honestly, she had thought them to be an odd part of the decor. Not once had she considered, until Draco pointed it out, that they were actually _meant_ for her— that they were symbols of the guests’ adoration and respect.

"Those are mine?" she muttered in bewilderment.

This time, it was he who laughed first, "Who else would they be for?"

Her mind spun from the sheer opulence and the pleasant haze of champagne— setting down the empty glass, Harri reached for the blond instead. Draco seemed surprised by such, staring down in puzzled panic at how her fingers interlaced readily with his own— a wide smile, beatific and serene, was aimed towards him, a flush dusting her cheeks. And then she was dragging him towards the dance floor, calling over her shoulder. 

"Okay, fine— then I'm officially declaring this to be a joint celebration! Now, will you dance with me already? I don't want to spend the entire night on the wall!"

Draco allowed her to guide them into the heart of the clouds, the other dancing couples parting to make room for their sudden entrance. Still grinning, Harri arched a brow as though asking ‘what are you waiting for?’ Nervous, tentative hands found the small of her waist, striving to remain respectful of where he was touching— and when she giggled, a girlish sound that only ever made an appearance whenever she was tipsy, he could feel the vibration through his hand. How her ribs had shifted, expanding and collapsing, a disarming revelation at how petite she actually was. His hand experimentally flexed about hers, suddenly irrationally worried about crushing the fine bones. It was disconcerting, impossible to think this was the same girl that had always acted so brashly, had executed death-defying plunges on her broom, had soared among the heavens without a care— that, despite her fragility, she held no fears of shattering. 

A sharp inhale, the breath sucked between his teeth when she moved closer, the softness of her chest pressing against him— he glanced down without meaning to. Draco coughed, a vain attempt to pass off the blush as a result of something catching in his throat and nothing more— the music started, leaving him with little choice but to lead.

* * *

* * *

The pair had come off the dance floor after two consecutive waltzes, riotous laughter announcing their arrivals and faces reddened from exertion. They were veering towards the champagne table, seeking refreshments— Severus had been waiting in ambush for them, dark eyes tracking their every move. The way their arms remained linked, her half-bent over in a fit, how they were speaking just a touch too loudly and garnering a touch too much attention. And he knew that the Dark Lord was watching from afar, that those scarlet eyes had followed after the girl the second she entered into the throng of dancers. And he also knew, without even looking, that stare would be one of possession, of ravenous greed— he had borne witness, after all, to their opening waltz. How they had been so fluidly intertwined together, darkness encircling the light, how enthralled he had been with her— and her with him. That the Dark Lord’s hand had been in a position a lover’s might be, their eyes never straying for too long. 

Even the theme of the gala wasn’t subtle, a blatant message for any that cared to read into it. The ballroom had been reconstructed to resemble the axis mundi of Olympus, their respective colour palettes befitting the tale of Hades and Persephone— it was a claim that, now more than ever, ascertained his Lord’s true intentions. It wasn’t a mere liaison he was looking for, not a driving carnal desire to be sated— no, this was too intricate to simply be that. A party like this was a declaration of intent— he was looking for a Queen and one would have to be blind to not see who the primary candidate was.

It was a headache to even consider, a strange, dismaying turn of events he was ill-equipped to deal with. And he couldn’t help but ponder if Draco was being willfully ignorant or merely foolish— or, perhaps, it was both. Snape glanced over to the flowing champagne fountain, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

"Severus!"

He shifted from scrutinising the statue to observe Harri break free of Draco’s hold, bare leg flashing as she gathered up the train to rush over. The girl stopped short before him, curls tumbling messily over her shoulders and doing little to lend her a sense of modesty. His brows lifted in surprise, choosing to focus on the colourless gems erupting from her collarbones and not daring to look down. That was another thing that bespoke of his Lord’s interest to a considerable degree— if he truly saw her as his ‘ward’ and nothing more, she wouldn’t be in that sort of gown. No parent would ever allow their child to wear something like that, least of all a father— he, himself, most certainly wouldn’t.

"Harri," he greeted neutrally, gaze sharp when Draco had pushed another flute into her hands. "I believe congratulations are in order for making it to adulthood in one piece."

"Oh— trust me, I'm just as surprised as you are, professor," she chuckled, glancing about the room. "I'm glad to see you came!”

"Indeed," he drawled, mouth thinning at the particularly deep sip she had just taken.

"Harri, another dance is starting," Draco pointed out, already taking a step towards her as the dancers repositioned themselves on the floor.

Severus looked past his godson’s shoulder, the pinpricks creeping along his arm a clear enough sign— and there, situated on the throne as the French monarch chatted away, the Dark Lord had honed in on their trio. Even from this distance, his expression was thunderous, unsmiling. And how intimately did he know what dangers such a countenance could reap, what destruction the brewing storm would sow if left untempered. The headmaster imposed himself between the pair, dark eyes refusing to stray from the man on the dais.

"Perhaps, Draco, it is time to give someone else a turn to dance with Miss Potter?" Severus suggested— there was a warning behind his words that seemed to go unnoticed by the girl. Draco, however, hadn't missed it.

Harri stared in puzzlement at the hand offered to her, trying to comprehend the dour man wanted to dance, of all things— even during the Yule Ball, he had remained stubbornly on the sidelines, testing the punchbowl every five minutes to ensure it remained untampered and stalking couples that attempted to leave early. Him dancing was a rare occurrence, a chance that might never come again— she took it readily, not willing to waste the opportunity.

"Just stay right there!" she called to the blond-haired boy as the headmaster steered her away. "I'll be right back!”

* * *

* * *

"Miss Potter is certainly popular, is she not?"

Voldemort despised the man for pointing it out— he’s already well aware without having to suffer such insipid, tactless commentary. He has been watching her, after all, has been eagerly awaiting her to return to him all night— and yet, she hadn’t even so much as _looked_ up towards him. At the present, she’s occupied with the company of what used to be her fellow schoolmates— and, regrettably, the French prince. ‘Slytherins,’ he noted, an impatient finger tapping on the scroll of the throne’s armrest. ‘And all boys.’ They kept joking with her, some going as far as nudging her, short-lived little touches that they probably thought were discreet. They weren’t. Brushes against her arms, a hand on her shoulder, fingers feeling the fabric of the gown near her hip and far too close to the exposed leg— it set him on edge. And the worst offender was taking the form of a blond menace who had dressed to purposefully match her— though he doesn’t have any evidence of it being true. They had already danced twice together, their expressions fixed in a look of bliss, of joy, their laughter carrying so he could hear it even from the platform. It would have been a third time had Severus not intervened, the headmaster having enough common sense to recognise the perceived indecency of them dancing together so frequently.

And while she was busy flirting, he had been stuck playing politician and host to a balding man who provided very little of substance in the way of conversation. The French monarch had proven to be overconfident, his manners lacking as he, seemingly, kept forgetting who he was speaking with— at one point, he even had the audacity to interject his unwarranted advice on how to rule ‘effectively’. It was through sheer will alone that the man was still breathing. But he had borne it all, had continued to smile charmingly and play the role of an amenable, assenting Devil even if the flowers to his right had shrivelled. With some difficulty, he kept trying to justify that murdering another sovereign at a highly public event would send a particularly undesirable message— a gamble he had debated over numerous times already.

"Indeed she is," Voldemort mused.

An echo of a giggle, the buzz in their bond a cross between intoxicated giddiness and his own souring mood— scarlet eyes snapped to her, that glittering dress a beacon. Apparently, the monarch's son, Laurent if he remembered correctly, had said something particularly amusing, earning a round of laughter from the boys and the coveted approval of a certain redhead. His jaw tensed.

"But Laurent, your Harri seems fond of him, no? Though, the Malfoy heir seems to be healthy competition as well. It is getting rather late but look at them— they don’t seem to mind at all!” a wistful muttering as the balding man signalled for a glass of water.

The Dark Lord determined this is what madness must feel like— an insatiable, esurient itch that refused to be alleviated no matter how valiantly one tried. If he had known that damned gown was going to amass such unsavoury attention, he wouldn’t have designed it in the first place— but, then again, his plan was to have her seated beside him all evening, safe and within arm’s reach. Not getting drunk with a bunch of schoolboys. His tongue traced over his canines, the rhythmic tapping ceasing. Before he could talk himself out of it, he was uncrossing his legs and rising from the throne, finding himself incapable of withstanding it any longer.

"It is getting quite late, isn't it? If you will excuse me," it was a half-baked excuse at best but Voldemort couldn't care, his descent down the stairs predatory. 

* * *

* * *

After returning from her dance with Snape, who was surprisingly quite versed, it was to see some of her old classmates surrounding Draco. Though her interactions with the Slytherins were minimal, their main connections being shared classes, shared quidditch matches, and a shared friendship with the Malfoy heir, they were a welcomed sight nonetheless. At the present, they were clustered near the balcony’s doors, enjoying the chilled night air and being perhaps just a touch too boisterous, too unruly with the assistance of never-ending champagne.

"Okay okay but Flint, I'm dying to know— what was Slytherin's win record this year?" Harri asked, emerald eyes gleaming in their keenness.

"We won the Hogwarts Cup," Marcus Flint had responded smugly, his broad chest puffing up— even among the circle, he stood half a head taller than everyone else, his bulking form somehow still massive even without the quidditch gear. "20 wins now that Gryffindor lost their ace. Couldn't have done it without you not playing this year."

"We would have won more if _somebody_ was still seeker," Theo Nott interjected, glaring good-naturedly at Draco. "But no, I had to fill in— and, as it turns out, I'm _bloody lousy_ at it."

"You! A seeker?" Harri shrieked, the thought amusing considering Nott could barely fly straight— she tilted her flute towards the blond. "What happened, Draco? I thought you would have enjoyed finally not getting your ass handed to you every match."

"Nah," Blaise chimed in, a flash of white teeth as he nudged the redhead's shoulder. "Malfoy here is a masochist when it comes to you— absolutely _loves_ getting 'his ass handed to him' when it's you doing the handing, Potter."

The laughter was unrestrained and Draco had to shout above it to be heard, a darkening flush on his cheeks— though whether it was from embarrassment or from drinking, only he knew, "Oh, come off it already! Just shut up and enjoy your drinks.”

"I must admit," Harri was quick to change the subject, seeking out peace. "I'm surprised that any of you came. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to see some familiar faces— but why?"

What? And miss all of this?" Blaise gestured wildly with a free hand to the room before them. "Not on my life, Potter. I mean, c'mon— gold _grapes_? A _statue_ for champagne? _Mini_ cakes? Yeah no, not a chance I’d skip it." 

"Plus, our parents were coming and seeing as the invitation came from the Dark Lord, saying 'no' wasn't exactly an option," Graham Avery put forth his own opinion, tilting his head towards a group of adults conversing amongst themselves further away— Harri recognised Narcissa and Lucius among them, easily enough piecing together who the others were.

She swirled the pale liquid, a symphony of bubbling in her glass— it was strange to hear her classmates openly admit to knowing who invited them, that it hadn’t been just her and Draco who were aware of their monarch’s true identity. But, in hindsight, she considered she shouldn’t have been too surprised seeing as they all shared prominent names with those she recognised from the meetings— Nott, Avery, Flint. And perhaps it was her fault for not guessing sooner, for not piecing it together. Emerald eyes darted about the young faces before her, a surge of morbid curiosity.

"Are you guys?" she glanced pointedly down to her bare left forearm.

"Oh, no," Theo was quick to jump in. "Apart from Draco, that is. The rest of us haven't taken the Mark."

The unspoken ‘yet’ remained heavy in the air, a nonverbal understanding between them as Flint shifted uneasily and Avery drank deeply from his glass. Draco was kicking at the clouds beneath their feet, disrupting their languid rolling motion, an odd air of guilt clinging to him— she bumped his shoulder lightly, frowning at the tense atmosphere. In a way, Harri pitied them and their blatant lack of enthusiasm to officially join the ranks— to be shepherded into this sort of life solely due to their parents’ choices. 

"Though, speaking of the Dark Lord," Blaise was the first to attempt to revive the conversation. "How did that even happen, Potter? Did you end up seduc—"

Avery jabbed the boy in the ribs with his elbow, a quiet hiss, "For Merlin's sake, Zabini, show some decency for once will you?"

Thankfully, before tensions could rise, a boy with tanned skin and hair the colour of spun gold had wandered over, bringing with him an easy smile and a much-needed sense of humour. He had introduced himself as Laurent, the heir to wizarding France— and, despite the lofty title, his sense of self was grounded, amicable. A pleasant diversion.

A few quick-witted jokes later and the laughter was back among the circle. Harri bent over at one in particular, a hand clutching at Draco's shoulder to steady herself.

“Harri.”

The riotous mood ended, their laughter cleaved in two at the unexpected addition to their group. It took her a second to realise who had wandered over, the waned faces of the boys before her a confusing reaction— they averted their eyes, heads dropped in respect, a muttered unison of ‘Your Majesty’.

She spun around, the high notes of joy still in her voice, mind too sluggish and laden with a pleasant thrumming to work out what she should refer to him in this situation— especially considering there was an outsider present, Laurent bowing by her side. Voldemort was looming before them, towering even over Flint, his shoulders squared and head tilted ever so slightly to the left in expectation— if she had been sober, Harri might have recognised such a stance to be a sign of danger. 

"Oh, hello!" Harri settled for an informal greeting, paying no mind to how Draco's shoulder had tensed. "You just missed the most hilarious story— uhm, I'm sure Laurent won't mind repeating it though."

Crimson eyes landed on her hand resting on Malfoy, flashing for a second at the unpleasant sight. And then he smiled— a slow thing, teeth too sharp, too white, too perfect— his voice smooth and even, “Indeed. Though, I must regretfully inform you, however, it is getting quite late and our guests are looking to leave.”

"Might I suggest we conclude the party?" he gestured towards the emptied dancefloor— it was disguised as a question, an invitation, though those present knew it was anything but.

A quick blink as she processed his words— how late was it? It certainly didn’t feel like hours had passed but time, as she intimately knew from the countless, illegal common-room parties she had attended on the sly, always passed in a blur whenever she drank. With an acquiescing nod, she abandoned her glass to the side table.

The girl had taken a step forward and Voldemort turned to follow, the polite mask still in place. His hand settled on the low of her back, just where the dress began, flexing as it guided her. At the last second, he spared a glance over his shoulder just as Draco had raised his head, that congenial smile slipping when they made eye contact— a silent warning, an advising for caution, flickered in those scarlet depths. The Malfoy heir only dared to hold the stare for a few seconds before breaking it, pale gaze darting down to the floor in search of a reprieve— a burst of twisted satisfaction behind his sternum, between his ribs, a hum of approval.

* * *

* * *

The concluding dance was kept fairly simple, a waltz that would last only a few minutes— and, this time, he refrained from adding in any unnecessary, extra steps. Partially it was because he was afraid she wouldn’t be able to keep up with the amount of champagne she had consumed and partially because he wanted it to be over, to not further prolong the requirement of their presences— to whisk her away from prying eyes and to have her to himself for just a few, undivided minutes. 

"Did you enjoy the party?" he asked as they glided across the floor, observing, with some relief, that she had no trouble keeping up.

"Honestly? I did," she admitted. "It was extra, and you really didn't have to bankrupt the country doing it, but I loved it nonetheless."

“Bankrupt the country? Well then, on behalf of the country, I would say it was a worthy cause.” 

As they entered into the final spin, the soft swells of the waltz coming to a close, he tried to school his expression into something neutral, to not prematurely give away the grand finale yet to come— the final, drawn-out note and the lights extinguished. Under his touch, he could feel her go rigid in alarm, her hand squeezing his own in an instinctual panic— he chuckled at the visceral reaction, finding it to be strangely endearing.

“Look,” he instructed, tilting her chin up to the fake heavens he had created.

And then she gasped. 

Above them, streaks of colour filled the otherwise dark sky, twisting and twirling rays of blues and purples, greens and yellows as meteors chased one another in an endless game of tag. The glow of them filled the room, reaching into every corner and tinting everything, everyone, with their radiance as they zipped by at dizzying speeds— a comet show made just for her. He had bent the cosmos, had redesigned them at his own leisure for this one moment— had done it all for this wisp of a girl in his arms. And in her eyes, he could see the reflection of each individual one, how she, quite literally, beheld the stars within her, made them her own, was composed of them— she was their ruler, their Queen. The smile he allowed himself this time was a genuine one, a small little thing influenced by the sheer amount of awe that overflowed from her and into him— a suspended second where the bitterness and the jealousy and the spite from earlier ebbed with the reconfirmation he had made her feel this way. That he was the cause of such ecstasy in her, such rapture.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, too afraid to raise her voice any further for the irrational fear of making them disappear.

His fingers folded in on her own, interweaving and intertangling, a breathy chuckle at the, literal, starstruck stupor he had brought upon her. But the night wasn’t over— not yet. 

“There's still one last surprise,” he returned the whisper, lips grazing the shell of her ear. 

And as the last falling comet split the darkness, there was a tug at their navels, a pull on their very cores— as though they, too, were being swallowed whole by the chasm of the void, seeking to be assimilated among the stars. 

When the lights had flickered back to life, the Dark Lord and the Girl Who Lived were noticeably absent from the swirl of clouds.


	61. Savage Devotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> **cue Panic at the Disco: Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've been waiting for**
> 
> A word of caution, please do mind the rating and the tags for this chapter-- this fic was tagged Explicit for a reason so just a heads up for everyone.
> 
> As always, thank you for the continued support and for everyone who has been commenting, bookmarking, kudosing, subscribing, etc-- I really appreciate every single one of you 💕You are all so lovely and thank you for giving me the motivation to write!
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!! 💕

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* * *

"So, where the bloody hell are we?" 

The question slipped out with a healthy dose of incredulity to back it— and Harri knew, without even looking, what sort of expression Voldemort would be sporting. Stern, his mouth slightly thinned, the evidence of his exasperation found in the crease between his brows. He despised her cursing, even mildly, his adamant opinion being that she should "more eloquently" express herself— that it wasn't appropriate for someone of "her station" to have such a "foul mouth.”

At this point, she mostly did it just to annoy him. 

"Language," came his muttered reprimand.

Her scoff was cut short as a palm pressed into her back and firmly pushed her forward— Harri stumbled. Even with the recent improvements in her eyesight, she couldn't make out anything in the darkness of the room. No details, no colours, nothing of distinction to break up the monotony of the chasm they had found themselves in— just a stretch of cold, all-encompassing night. 

That hand dropped away and his footsteps retreated. 

Without a guide to navigate the treachery of the shadows, Harri dared not to move or take another step— who knew what dangers were lying in wait? Robbed of her sight, staying still was the best, and only, course of action— and that’s exactly what she did. Rooted in place, she listened intently, striving to pinpoint where he had possibly wandered off to. And though she did consider she should probably begin to fret over what the man was planning, Harri was, oddly enough, rather calm. 

A rush of magic, the heady taste of it upon her tongue one that she readily recognised as his signature— the roar of a fire igniting. 

Harri blinked against the unexpected flood of light.

Voldemort, with an air of easy grace, was leaning against a mantle, the polished black stone of it heavily carved. And it was through that one, simple detail that Harri ascertained they were, most definitely, no longer at Malfoy Manor. Contrary to the running theme of the mansion, with its Parisian style and ivory fixtures, this was an austere piece. Stark. Severe. 'Narcissa would absolutely hate it.' 

A myriad of serpents, fine attention paid to detailing each individual scale, had been chiselled into the obsidian— they wound their way up the sides, crawling and interweaving through tangled vines. So lifelike they were, Harri half-expected them to begin moving at any second. Contained behind the charred grate, flames jumped in a lively dance, their colour a lush verdant that awashed the world in green.

With a playful curl upon his mouth, he watched her. And how at home did the Dark Lord look, how perfectly at ease— as though he were the master of this strange room and she his esteemed guest.

"Take a look around," he said, gesturing broadly behind her. "I would love to hear your impressions."

Harri arched a brow at the amusement in his voice, the dreaded sign he was seeking to play a game of sorts— a game that, as per usual, he was withholding from fully explaining. The blissful buzz from the champagne was dissipating and how she keenly wished for more, particularly if it meant the rest of the night would be spent entertaining his theatrics. Stamping down the urge to roll her eyes, she obliged the request anyway— her mouth slackened at the sight.

He had brought them to a library of some kind— but it wasn’t one like any she had ever encountered before. The shelves were completely circular, encasing them from all sides with leather-bound novels, the air perfumed cloyingly by their yellowed pages and dried ink— and how the bookcases _towered_. Every fourth shelf had a balcony demarcated by a balustrade of wrought iron, the railings composed of metal vines and tarnished leaves. Stone vessels resting atop miniature columns were placed sporadically about the landings, the same green fire flickering in their bowls. 

How the place hadn’t been burnt down already by accident was proof that miracles existed. 

Near one of the bookcases, steps made from the same iron hovered in the air, suspended by an invisible force and climbing upwards in a spiral. Floating orbs of light, reminiscent of fireflies, illuminated the ascending path. Curious as to how high the staircase actually extended, she craned her neck only to cry out in surprise. 

At a dizzying height above them and sprouting from the ceiling were stalactites— a jutting array of crystals. They varied in sizes, multifaceted in their cut, their points sharpened to a wicked degree. And how they absolutely sparkled. The emerald light refracted off their polished surfaces at a multitude of angles, warping and manipulating the flames in the mantle. Harri cocked her head, noting with some delight that the glint changed directions with her. A dazzling, kaleidoscopic rainbow— nature’s own take on a chandelier. 

However, the splendid effect was abruptly ruined by the strangest, worrying thought. For the first time since entering the room, she had become aware of the absence of windows. And as she listened desperately for any noises that might betray where, exactly, they were, she found none— a vacuum of quiet save for the occasional pop in the hearth.

"Are we underground?" she asked softly, a flicker of fear that those crystals could come crashing down at any second.

“Indeed.”

And how disconcerting that answer was— her eyes snapped to him, narrowing at his apparent nonchalance.

"They are secure, Harri. I promise."

But, oh, how she despised enclosed spaces. She despised the thought of there being no way out, despised the feelings of suffocation and hopelessness— and she absolutely despised the concept of being buried alive. 

And while that wasn’t apparently his foremost concern, it was rapidly becoming one of hers. 

Harri continued to stare distrustfully at the ceiling, hesitant to look away— an annoyed click of her tongue as her brain argued it was simply best to believe him. She eventually gave in to logic, pacifying herself with the knowledge that Voldemort wouldn’t dare bring her to a place that could jeopardise either of them— though, it didn’t make it any less of a difficult pill to swallow.

Fixing him with a look of irked expectation, she waited for him to explain where they were.

He refused to yield.

This time around, Harri didn't stifle the urge to roll her eyes. ‘So he still wants to play this stupid guessing game? Wonderful.'

Hands finding their way to her hips, fingers drummed against them pensively as she took a turn about the room in search of clues. The train of her gown dragged across the floor, smooth tiles in the colour of slate, the noise of her heels muffled by the walls of books. She didn't even want to try to guess how many there were in total. 

Decoration, for the most part, was kept sparse and bland in the library— save for the muted hues of the tomes' covers. Harri observed a desk positioned towards the back of the circular room, the buffed wood dark against a lighter grain. Like the fireplace, it also sported a motif of curling snakes and ivy, the design carved to an exorbitant degree. 

The only carpet was a runner tapestry positioned in front of the hearth, its style a remnant from the medieval era— like the books, the colours of it were long since faded by time. A serpent encircling a tree was interwoven into the fabric, the scales losing their definition and the canopy of leaves dulled. At one point, it might have been beautiful. Now, however, it was shabby. Lacklustre.

She frowned.

A crackle as the logs turned to ash in the fireplace. 

Embers sparking angrily against the grate. 

The whisper of fabric against stone. 

Minutes of lengthening silence only punctuated by the staccato clicking of her heels.

"You seem to be sobering up," he commented offhandedly.

"Yeah, well. You seem to be underestimating my tolerance." 

"Oh? And how is it that you have come by a _'tolerance',_ Harri?"

"Mhm— you don't want to know." 

Harri paused in front of a cleared shelf, a small alcove of respite in the sea of books. On it, a dusty bottle of wine, the cork sealed with weeping tears of black wax, was flanked by two tarnished goblets. She picked one up tentatively, the weight signifying it was of pure silver— she had spent enough time polishing Aunt Petunia’s good silverware to know— while the ring of dust served as an indication that it hadn't been used in quite some time. And there it was again. A snake coiling about the stem.

"Someone’s a Slytherin fan," she mused.

"Well, yes. I would hope so considering he invented the house."

She nearly dropped the goblet.

A spluttering sound caught in the back of her throat as she whirled around in alarm. Part of her was half-expecting him to claim to only be joking— but that smug air clearly said otherwise. Wide eyes darted down to the chalice in her hand, a burst of panic as it was quickly returned to the shelf. She didn't even want to fathom how old it must be, how ancient the room itself was— how much knowledge it contained, how many events it had borne witness to throughout the centuries. 

A quick glance to the bookcases, an uneasy feeling she was encroaching on a place that she, most certainly, should not be in.

"W-wait, so you mean to tell me—”

"That this is Salazar Slytherin's own personal study? Then yes."

Voldemort watched as it sunk in, finding no small degree of satisfaction at the stupor overcoming her. The way she had returned the chalice as if it had burnt her, how those green eyes widened in reverential awe, that quiet exhale of wonder— he catalogued it all. Stepping away from the mantle, finding himself no longer content to simply watch the sway to her gait as she waltzed about, long legs crossed the study. 

Pausing near the desk, the Dark Lord waited for her to come to him. 

A burst of contentment, bright and welcome, when she had done just that— two magnets perpetually drawn to the other. He smothered the smirk the best he could, stifled that gratification from showing too clearly when the girl leaned her hip against the desk. She was openly staring at him, bewilderment held in a green gaze— the curiosity seeping from her was a lively, animated thing. It almost caused his mask to slip. 

Rather than indulging her right away, Voldemort chose to drag out the suspense. The crook of his finger slipped behind the knot of his tie. Loosening it, he reached for one of the abandoned volumes strewn about the table and airily flipped to a random page.

"And?! Is that all you have to say— 'This is Salazar Slytherin's own personal study'?!" she demanded. 

The mask cracked. 

A slight smile formed at the pitiful attempt to mimic his accent. There was an immense weight to that expectant stare of hers as she willed him to look up. He didn’t. Rather, a devious thought was entertained as he turned to the next page— an index finger trailed down the edges of the tome. It was a languid, purposeful movement that he knew would catch her eye. The result was a clearing of her throat that spoke volumes, the next words a touch too rushed, too quick to be anything but a betrayal of her piqued interest. ‘How endearing.’

That smile only grew.

"You can't just drop a bomb like that,” she protested. “How did you even—"

"I found it the year I opened the Chamber," he explained casually.

A delayed blink at the admission. "Hold on. Does that mean—?"

When she had tilted her chin to look up at the crystalline roof, the column of her throat exposed and the muscle strained as it worked to bend back, he was captivated. And, as though it were a siren's call, a beckoning impossible to ignore, his attention shifted to that pale, silver mark adorning her neck. Despite the diamonds dripping down into her décolletage, he could see it so clearly— his own personal brand. That spot where his fangs had pierced her skin, a sight far more becoming than any piece of jewellery could ever be.

"That we are currently at Hogwarts?" he said, finishing the thought for her. "The answer would also be yes."

She lowered her chin to stare flatly at him, her confusion nearly palpable. "But you can't apparate into Hogwarts." 

Voldemort chuckled under his breath and arched his brow. "Can't I?"

His voice was smug, confident, that smirk entirely too cocky. And Harri was perplexed, and perhaps just a touch annoyed, by the fact that he wore such arrogance so attractively. The tilt of his head to the left, the twitch in the corners of his mouth as they lifted unevenly— and when he laughed, a quiet little thing, her pulse quickened. During the past few months, Harri often found herself in a moral quandary whenever he did so. Whenever he would chuckle in that manner and that seed of possession unwittingly sprouted. It always started in her chest, spreading outwards with its tendrils into her limbs, her fingertips, her mind— and it ended up in full bloom with that desperate need to hear him do it once more. To have this man who was so severe, so reserved in front of his followers to look at her and _smile_ — to have a side of him that no one else could ever claim to be privy to. Truly, she never considered herself to be the covetous, territorial type— but with him? It was difficult to be anything else.

Harri averted her eyes before he caught her staring. 

It was peculiar how being underground seemed to only amplify all other sounds. And as she sought a distraction, trying to divert herself from the direction her thoughts were attempting to go, they stole into her mind— the unhurried breathing of him, the thunderous drumming in her ears, the crinkle of pages being turned, the robust crackling in the mantle. Absolutely irritating. In the end, she became entranced by the tome in his hands, brows knitting together at the unfamiliar letters. To her, it appeared like slanted together squiggles and a run on jumble of poorly done cursive.

“What language is that?” 

"Parselscript," he supplied, setting down the book to cross his arms over his chest. "All of the texts here are written the same way."

Voldemort tilted his chin towards the shelves. "This is where I spent a great deal of my time at Hogwarts. Mainly learning, of course. I found answers here about myself and I figured it was time you found some as well."

"Pardon?"

When she looked up at him, there was blatant confusion in her gaze— but such a thing was overshadowed by that glint of untempered hunger at the mention of possible answers. It was a look he knew too intimately, a look that bespoke of desperation— of someone starved their entire life only to have a crust of bread dangled in front of them. An unwitting kinship and a flash of commiseration— a driving need to be the one to sate her hollowed stomach.

He reached over to casually, innocently, pluck an auburn curl off her shoulder. 

"Seeing as this is as much of your legacy as it is mine, it would be unfair to withhold it from you," he explained.

The air thinned in the room, tension slipping into her muscles and burrowing into her sinew— Harri refused to breathe, to move, to budge the slightest inch for fear of ruining the moment. Haunted by the sight of her hair being wrapped about his index finger, she watched, entirely hypnotised. It was a jarring juxtaposition, the colour of the strand so much brighter, so much richer, against his alabaster complexion. Blood— splatters against the snow, a river of it cutting a winding path. 

His words, admittedly, startled her. They were weighty, far too full of implication. Far too _candid_. She knew what the Chamber meant to him, how important it was— she _knew_ for she had seen it. Down here, deep under the earth and kneeling on dampened tiles, she had borne witness to a specter proudly proclaiming to the Heavens that he was the Heir of Slytherin. Had beheld him cutting burning letters into the ether and rearranging them to reveal the dismal, excruciating truth— _'I am Lord Voldemort.’_ Had understood that, for an orphan with so little, a single name composed his entire world. And she also knew that this was _his_ true legacy— not hers. He had inherited it, had the blood and lineage to substantiate the claim whereas she only partook by proxy— a mishap brought about by a wayward soul.

Yet, he was letting her in— was trusting her with something so sacred. 

Her stomach churned uneasily, a lump caught in her throat. "What if I never change though?"

The twisting motion stilled. 

Harri cursed herself for even voicing such a thing, for ruining the moment despite her best attempts not to. Green eyes darted over his closed-off expression with a burgeoning sense of distress.

"You will." It was a decisive statement on his end.

And on the matter, Voldemort did consider he was being somewhat selfish. After all, it was a situation that nature would determine the outcome of. Yet, he willed it to happen all the same— _needed_ it to. He needed his horcrux to take that final plunge and forsake humanity as he had done— to further, irrevocably bind them together. Needed someone to revel alongside him in being above the common man, to share in the pains and the accompanying glory. A damning revelation that he _wanted_ her to be, exactly, like him.

The Dark Lord forced a placating smile when she had flinched at his tone, untwisting that curl and reaching for her hand instead. There was a gentleness in how he grasped it, his thumb brushing over her knuckles and the valleys between them.

"You will," he repeated, a touch more cajoling this time.

Harri held her tongue from arguing. 

"On a different matter, I have a gift for you," he changed the subject. 

His free hand, fingers splayed and palm turned down, cut a horizontal path above the desk, a wandless, wordless gesture— the traces of his magic rolled across her skin, a buzz in her system. In its wake, a box had begun to slowly materialise, knitting itself together from the green-tinted shadows until it became solid. Real. Harri spared a glance to it, curiosity spiking at the shape, the length. It almost looked like a— but could it be?

Emerald eyes slid questioningly to him. A dip of his head for her to open it and nervous hands, tentative and unsure, disentangled from his. 

The case was simple enough. Black and unwrapped, no added embellishments or bows to adorn it— rather befitting, she figured, to the personality of its giver. A breath held in smarting lungs, she lifted the lid off slowly and peeled back the layer of protective cloth— a strangled noise.

There, nestled among the velvet padding and recently polished, was a sight she would recognise anywhere— her wand. And not just the replacement that only half-listened but her wand— _her_ _original_. That tapered, unwarped length of dark wood, the raised handle that mimicked tree bark, the notch midway through the grain. It was, undoubtedly, the one she had dropped in the graveyard all those years ago. Harri looked to Voldemort, vision blurring. He was watching her intensely, solemn instead of teasing for the first time all night, scarlet eyes roaming greedily across her face and drinking it all in.

And though Harri figured she should probably demand to know how the holly had found its way to him in the first place, or how long, exactly, he had kept them separated, she couldn’t bring herself to. None of that mattered. Not now. 

With a shaky exhale, she lifted the wand tenderly, gently, from the box. The weight in her palm was comforting, the groove of the handle familiar. A joyous reunion between two old, dear friends. And even if there was something else hovering in the background of their blissful reacquaintance, a blot of darkness that should be a cause of concern, she could care less. She had her _wand_ back.

Elation— pure and unbridled, the smile upon her face wide and easy. Harri tested her grip with a flourish, relieved to find the movement still a second nature. She had barely noticed Voldemort coming closer until it was too late— until hands, large and solid, landed on her shoulders and that broad chest slotted firmly against her back. Lips hovered near the shell of her ear, his words a serious, somber whisper.

"Let this be a symbol of my trust in you, Harri. I am giving you a wand because you have _earned_ it— do not make me regret such a decision."

Her acknowledgement came as a silent nod, only half-registering the threat interwoven into the message— the implication that he could just as easily take away the holly as he had given it back. An itch, esurient and rampant, blossomed behind her sternum, a rush of excitement that made it hard to contain herself any longer— a call of her magic begging to be released now that it had a proper conduit to do so. She gave in.

With a snap of her wrist, brilliant sparks cascaded out from the tip. A fountain of shimmering gold erupted over their heads— an arc of radiance that cut through the darkness and brightened every corner of the library. Euphoria manifested as a sobbing laugh when magic, far stronger than when she would cast wandlessly, coursed in her veins. There was a peculiar sense of completion as the holly thrummed with an overabundance of energy, a deadened limb regaining life. Something inside of her sang. 

Harri, unthinkingly, turned her head— a chaste, fleeting press of her lips against his.

It took her a second to understand what she was doing. The sparks dancing above them faded as she withdrew in shock. 

Harri spun around in the cage of his arms, an apology already forming.

"Shit, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—," the words trailed off.

He was watching her— that part wasn't so unusual. It was a terrible habit of his that she had grown accustomed to, his scrutiny her constant companion. But it was the way he was looking at her that was different. Harri's nerves knotted as those scarlet eyes, darkened by the verdant flames, darted down to her mouth. There was a glint of desire in them and the barest flickers of— awe? But before she could determine the truth of the sentiment, he stepped in closer and disrupted her contemplation.

"No," he readily agreed. "You really shouldn't have."

He closed the gap between them before she could even blink.

Compared to her, there was a distinct lack of chasteness to be found in him. His mouth moved insistently against her own and Harri fumbled to set the wand down, her focus siphoned off to clumsily follow his lead. Surrendering to that magnetic pull that existed between them made her head swim— that sparking, subtle current, a live wire barely contained.

Their bond was flaring to life in the recesses of her mind, the drumming in her ears escalating to a white noise. 

And before Harri knew what was happening, hands were encircling her waist, their presence keenly felt through the fluid material of her gown. The desk's edge dug into the backs of her thighs as he crowded her against it.

She barely noticed.

There was a sharp nip and the ensuing gasp was readily taken advantage of. His tongue slipped past the seal of her lips— it tasted as honeyed as his words and as sweet as the lies he spun like sugar. Exhilarating. All too gladly did she ignore the voice screaming for caution as the air in her lungs was offered up in tribute for something far, far more gratifying. 

Her weight shifted to her toes as she sought to eliminate their distance, an eagerness as she chased after the kiss.

Apparently sensing her struggle, his hands sunk firmly into the gentle curve of her waist before lifting her up onto the desk. A clatter of inkwells and scrolls followed as they were disturbed from their decades-long resting places. Neither the Dark Lord nor the girl, however, saw fit to pay them any mind. Not to the alarming sounds of bottles tipping over, not to the errant vial that was rolling precariously towards the edge— not even when it shattered on the tile, the sound of glass rupturing into a million shards drowned out by their quickened breaths. 

Wandering hands drifted up to his shoulders and smoothed desperately over the fabric of his suit— the cord of muscle flexed under the touch.

Voldemort shifted and her legs, dangling off the desk, instinctively parted to let him edge in closer. The shared heat between their bodies was stifling, all-consuming— not that she entirely minded, especially considering her gown did little to fend off the evening’s chill. 

It was with a ragged gasp that they finally broke apart, both searching for air where little was to be found. Lightheadedness became her most enduring companion, her lungs plagued by an agonising burn— she loved it. There was something freeing to be found in the sensation, in succumbing to the inevitability— in letting herself feel for once without thinking. 

Green eyes locked with red ones in a momentary respite as she strived to ignore how dangerously the world was tilting on its axis. He looked dishevelled for once, that rebellious curl falling over his brow, his mouth fuller than usual— bruised almost with a wet sheen that caught the firelight. For a lack of a better word, Voldemort looked _debauched—_ and Harri didn't even want to know what she must look like in turn. Though, judging by his current expression, she figured she must appear equally shameless. Equally indecent. 

It was a battle to gather her wits and calm herself— something that he, apparently, had no intentions of allowing.

He placed a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth, carving out a deliberate path— along the curve of her jaw, the soft junction below her ear, down the column of her throat. A hitched sigh escaped her when his teeth grazed against her pulse point, not quite breaking the skin but still possessing the thrill of the threat. 

Harri tilted her head back, her next inhale sucked through clenched teeth when that open-mouthed kiss only increased in pressure. A bruising suck, a punishing nip— the flat pull of a tongue a soothing balm. She could viscerally feel the flush across her skin, a heat rising into her cheeks and pooling in her stomach— it barely registered that those hands had left her waist until it was too late.

Fingers trailed lazily up the exposed back of her dress, the touch featherlight as it traced over the ridges of her spine. She shivered.

Nails scraped teasingly against her scalp to disrupt that braided halo Narcissa had so lovingly created just a few hours prior. The tickle of undone wisps grazing bare shoulders— his grip constricted. A not-so-gentle tug wrenched her head back even further, an unrelenting hold that caused a low moan to slip out. 

Half-lidded eyes trained themselves down on him as her nails sunk deeper into the muscles of his shoulders, the crescent moon impressions a silent warning. On that swollen mouth of his, a smirk appeared, the left side lifting higher than the right as their gazes locked. 

He purposefully ventured lower— a ghosting kiss to the dip of her collarbones. It was surprisingly tame, a jarring juxtaposition to the pain felt down to her roots from the hand knotted firmly in her hair. Some twisted part of her adored it.

But how that sense of discomfort dulled in comparison to the weight of a hand trailing up the leg peeking out from the split hem— a path of fire. 

A moment of suspension.

Behind her ribs, Harri could feel her heart attempting to rupture, to burst past its cage with its frenzied beating. And she wondered if Voldemort could sense it as well— that evermounting wave just waiting to crest. Those scarlet eyes were attentive, something ravenous and starved held in them as that hand dared to climb— it slipped under the skirt. This was a game, she recognised, to see who would bow out first. She had no intentions of losing.

Higher and higher and higher— past the curve of her calf, past the rounded cap of her knee. The roaring in her ears increased when he had brazenly brushed against her inner-thigh, fingers burrowing into it with a bruising grip. A quick squeeze was all it took to muddle her rationality.

Distant warning bells were going off at how close he was, his intention all too clear— Harri ignored them in favour of wrenching herself free from the hand tangled in her hair. She cupped his jaw, thumbs greedily tracing the defined, sharp angles of it as she brought her mouth to his. Hunger— she thought she knew what it was after spending a childhood filled with it. The blight of an emptied stomach, of never having enough. She thought she knew— but this? No, this was a different sort. A _terrifying_ sort— an unknown type that only served to thrill her.

Their bond was a solar flare in the shared darkness of their minds as her lips moved clumsily against his, a keen desperation spurring her on. It was difficult to not hyper-fixate on the weight of that hand that rested upon her thigh— how it refused to budge any higher and was seemingly content to massage into the pliant muscle. Absolutely _maddening_. 

_"Fucking hell— just touch me already,"_ she demanded, agitation causing her to slip into parseltongue.

Voldemort smirked against her mouth, a flood of triumph upon securing her verbal consent and the enthusiasm behind the insistence. And who was he to deny her?

He took his time in allowing his fingers to graze over the silkiness of her skin, the warmth of the heated blood circulating in her veins _burning._ In the moment, she seemed far less like a star and more of a sun. An imploding supernova.

The satin material of her underwear brushed against his hand, a bloom of eagerness, of impatience in his chest. Her reaction to him was clear enough, the material dampened as he lightly traced a path upwards— there was a bitten-off gasp from her, the word tumbling out a strangled _'fuck'_. 

Scarlet eyes lifted to see her brows drawn together, the bottom lip caught between her teeth. And some part of him did wonder how much experience she could actually lay claim to having. 'Probably not much,' he figured, her reaction pitifully telling considering he hadn't even _done_ anything yet. And there it was— that insatiable need, that depraved urge to see what kind of expressions she would have, what sort of sounds she would make when he pushed her over the edge.

A wicked, passing idea entirely too tempting to ignore.

"Tell me, Harri." His voice was low as his thumb brushed over her clit to get her attention— she jolted in response.

Pressure increasing, he leisurely, unhurriedly circled that bundle of nerves. Almost obsessively, he took to cataloguing each hitched breath, that becoming flush on her cheeks, the way those lids, painted with a pale shimmer, were lowered, their lashes fluttering. How often had he dreamt of this moment? Of seeing her this way because of _him_? And, not for the first time, did the Dark Lord determine that his imagination had failed him miserably, the reality painting a much prettier picture than any he could have ever conjured.

His free hand ended up behind her and splayed on the desk to keep himself grounded.

“At night, when you would touch yourself while everyone else slept, who would you think of?” he questioned quietly. 

Encouraged by the soft gasps, he edged his hand under the satin fabric’s band. There was a twitch in her thighs, an instinct for them to close, when he casually trailed his fingers through her center. A peculiar sense of pride bloomed at how wet she was— that _he_ had been the one to reduce her to such a state.

"Who would be the star player in your fantasies? Who did you like to imagine?" he refused to relent.

The heel of his palm pressed down against that spot of nerves— a low hum of approval when her hips canted forward. She shuddered, those unintelligible little sounds spilling past her lips sending a spike of anticipation through his own veins.

That sharpening ache between her legs and the haze blanketing her mind muddled his questions. If Harri had thought her skin was on fire before, then she considered it must be molten by now. She felt too warm, too much, too floaty— and the only thing tethering her at the present were the solid shoulders she desperately clung to. Within her chest, utter mayhem reigned— a frantic beating, the upticks as the chambers of her heart contracted too strong to be normal. Everywhere he touched was electrifying, purposeful— not at all like those stolen, fumbling moments in the night when she attempted to figure it out for herself. No, this was far, _far_ better. 

Her hips ground down against his hand for friction, a vain attempt to get him to oblige her already.

A finger pressed against her before slipping inside, another following close behind. Her head tilted back at the unexpected sensation, eyes screwing shut— a cascade of ruined curls and undone braids. Neon bursts erupted behind closed lids when he moved experimentally, nerves frayed as that thumb had resumed its teasing. 

“ _Shit_ ," the moan bubbled out from parted lips. 

An opened mouth kiss to the hollow of her throat— a choked back cry, flames licking up her spine.

"Was it me you would envision?"

Voldemort smirked when her words refused to form— but the truth was found in her body and the way her muscles had clenched in the ultimate betrayal. A surge of triumph, his teeth scraping the tender skin of her neck. 

This was a foreign feeling for her. Alien, bizarre— she never wanted it to end. It felt as though she were falling apart, ready to collapse inward and just shatter. Everything was too heated, too much yet too little— and then those fingers had _curled_. They pushed unwaveringly into a spot inside of her that she wasn't even aware of existing, a blinding flash of white-hot light.

“ _Fuck—_ ” 

That tension kept building, a crescendo ever rising. Her hold on him tightened as an auburn crown burrowed into his chest in a pathetic attempt to ride out the pleasure that was almost becoming too much to stand. It hurt to breathe, static crawling across her skin.

Those fingers pressed into that spot again— and she was lost. That wave finally came crashing down, a merciless tide. Her back arched, a shuddering breath of meaningless, incomprehensible sounds as she came undone.

And for a second, everything felt right. Perfect. Like she was floating, weightless— soaring through the sky and tasting the golden sun upon her tongue.

But then she was crashing down, the wax melted from her wings by that very same, once welcoming sun— a prodigious deception.

As that pleasure rapidly ebbed, all Harri felt was an overriding exhaustion competing with that blissful glow. Her chest ached, her nerves ached— everything felt overloaded. Too sensitive. Trembling fingers lost their strength, her face pushing into the crook of his neck as she made poor attempts to process what just happened. The scent of him was wonderfully calming— the fragrance of sweet smoke undercut by something clean, something else she couldn’t quite place. 

Was this what Lavender had been referring to all those times when she talked about "the best feeling in the world"? She considered it must be— because, despite the weariness, Harri found herself still wanting it. 'How bloody confusing.'

 _"Home. Now,"_ she muttered against his skin the second she could get the words out.

* * *

* * *

Voldemort had granted the request.

A sharp pop cut through the quiet of the bedroom and cleaved the blanketing peace of the manor— it sounded thunderous even to her ringing ears and Harri half-worried whether or not they had woken anyone up. Probably not— or so she hoped. 

Despite arriving, he was steadfast in continuing to hold her, an arm looped under her legs and the other spanning across her back. And though she might have objected on any other occasion, Harri was, secretly, grateful for his stubbornness. Her body had seen fit to enact a mutiny, her legs shaky, unstable— ‘standing’, in particular, seemed quite high on the running list of impossibilities at the present. And yet, despite the physical state she currently found herself in, a little voice protested that it wasn't quite satisfied. Pandora's box had been opened, the unleashed spirits greedy in their eternal quest to devour—but, for once, she had no mind to try to shut it.

Silence reigned. Harri could feel those red, red eyes boring into her and she knew, if she was brave enough to look, fixation would be shining in their depths— he wasn't inclined to try to close the box either. 

Her gaze bounced about the room for a distraction, noting the deadened mantle and the drawn drapes. At some point, a house-elf had seen fit to light some of the filigree sconces on the walls and open the balcony doors to allow in the summer breeze— the perfume of honeysuckle filled the bedroom. Slanted rays of starlight, lengthening shadows, the occasional, dulcet chirp of a cricket— a serene enough scene as the rest of the world slept. 

And then she saw the bed. 

That grand, four-postered bed with its excessive amount of pillows and gossamer curtains. The very same one she had slept in so often without a second thought— the very same that had committed the shape of her body, of each curve and dip, to memory.

It seemed daunting now. Intimidating. 

Flashes of them tangled together in the black sheets, the feel of silk against naked skin— heat spread up to her ears, her heart refusing to calm.

Memories of what had just transpired were unwanted visitors, a barrage of indecent noises. Lips where lips should never stray, hands where hands should refrain from being— she could still feel it all as lingering, phantom sensations. And the fact she had barely lasted under his, albeit skillful, touch? It was almost embarrassing. ‘Sweet Merlin, kill me now.’ 

Harri cleared her throat, looking down to her manicured nails as though they were the most interesting thing in the world. 

"I think I can walk now," she said. 

She stared up at him, forcing herself to hold her ground when his arched brow called out the bald-faced lie. With an exasperated sigh, Voldemort eventually, reluctantly, lowered her down to the ground— her knees nearly buckled under the weight. 

Harri forced herself to walk it off when he had scoffed— an extremely poor attempt to hide his conceited amusement— the mortification and the desire to prove him wrong pushing her on towards the lounge. ‘Bloody, egotistical sadist.’

Relieved, she sunk down onto the chaise, thankful enough to have been spared the humiliation of being carried over. The Dark Lord was watching in silent, open interest as she busied herself with the laborious task of removing the diamond pins from her dismantled curls. A tense moment, the candles flickering on the walls casting an intimate ambience about the room. 

‘Just calm down. Lavender has done this a million times. How hard can it be?’ But the more she tried to recall her roommate’s promiscuous tales, the details of those giggle-laced whispers of liaisons held in broom closets, the more unnerved she felt— she couldn't remember anything. 

A slew of muttered curses as she wrestled with the pins. It was a losing battle, her nerves seeping into her fingers and making them stiff. Graceless.

"Uhm, do you— can you?" she finally asked, a sheepish smile as she avoided looking into his eyes. "Narcissa usually helps. But considering the uhm, circumstances, and the hour—"

"Of course."

She swallowed heavily. That agreeable smile of his did little to help ease away the pit in her stomach. The lounge dipped under the added weight as he settled behind her, shoulders drawn up. And how that afterglow from earlier was rapidly fading, eaten away by anxiety and anticipation, that too-wide bed hovering on the edges of her consciousness.

A stilted inhale when fingers brushed against the nape of her neck to gather up the mess of curls— she attempted to cover it up with a cough, striving to portray an air of nonchalance she most certainly did not feel. Surprisingly gentle, his movements were deft as he plucked out the diamond pins one by one— the quiet clink of them being set down on the glass coffee table occupied the silence.

And how odd was it to think that the Dark Lord, their ruler, the wizard most feared to even utter his _name,_ was acting as her attendant tonight? Admittedly, the concept inspired an unwitting, possessive contentment deep within herself. 

Under the lull of his work, the pleasurable slight tugs on her scalp, Harri could feel some of her stress begin to wane.

Her tentative question broke the quiet first. "How did you know?"

"Regarding?"

"When you, you know— earlier. When you uhm guessed who I thought about? That it was you?"

Those fingers stilled as though taken back by the question. She frowned at the reaction, thrown off when he had chuckled softly— a puff of cool air against her exposed neck. The last pin joined its companions and Voldemort leaned forward, hands draping over her shoulders to idly trace the pronounced outline of her collarbones.

Shivering at the featherlight touch, her hands clenched the glittering fabric of her gown.

"Oh, Harri— do you want to know a secret?"

She nodded slightly, mouth dry.

Brushing against the teardrop diamonds adorning that slender neck of hers, he whispered against auburn curls, "I didn't."

A flash of alarm at the admission, Harri craned her neck to stare back at him in shocked horror. Judging by the victory so clearly etched onto his face, he wasn't lying. 'But if he didn't know—.' Mortification flooded her.

Voldemort couldn't resist the rakish smile, finding her expression far too tempting to ignore. He swept a strand of red hair behind her ear. "Of course, I was aware of those little moments— those times when you would touch yourself. I felt it. Every emotion, the conflict, the frustration. Your _shame_. Truly, your bleedthrough was atrocious, Harri."

He laughed, a sharp sound edged with perverted delight as her cheeks blushed considerably. Her head snapped forward in embarrassment and he bestowed a kiss to the curve of her jaw, relishing in the petal-soft skin and the scent of roses it carried. 

Searching fingers found the clasp of her necklace and undid it with practiced ease. The diamonds slackened without the tension to hold them taut, crumpling inwards as he dragged them slowly off her throat— they fell into his waiting palm.

"But I’m flattered and I thank you for confirming my suspicions." He removed the headpiece of erupting stars. "Do you want to know another secret?"

Spread fingers carded through her wild auburn crown, disrupting the remaining braids that had valiantly clung to their integrity— they fell apart under his coaxing. In a final once-over, blunt nails scraped along her scalp and against that vulnerable point at the base of her skull. He hummed, pleased enough with her visceral reaction, the way she had leaned into him unconsciously.

When Voldemort spoke, his words were cutting, quiet— as though they were a secret, "I would think of you as well."

Harri's eyes, having slipped closed at some point under the pacifying massage, flew open. Before she could properly react and demand to know if that meant what she thought it did, he had already left. It was oddly cold without him crowding against her back, a twinge in her chest at the abrupt absence.

Rising from the chaise, he knelt on the Persian rug before her, one knee bent at an angle. The Dark Lord reached for a foot hidden under the voluminous skirts, resting it upon his thigh as he slipped off the satin heel. Darkening eyes were trained up on her, their gazes meeting— a chaste kiss to her bare calf before he gently guided the foot down to the ground.

Her pulse fluttered at that singular look of worship— and how some warped aspect of her, the side that thrived off having things for her own, revelled in the sight. That he, Lord Voldemort, the man who approached Fate as though he were the ruler of it, who deemed himself to be above the common rabble, was on his knees before her— that, for once, it wasn't the other way around. Heat in her stomach, a slip of fire that crept dangerously downward, her interest piqued when he placed another kiss to the opposite leg. A heady revelation that she felt in control, in power— it didn't lessen even as his arms caged her against the lounge.

His mouth slotted against hers and Harri nearly groaned—that sense of power deflated, evaporating just as quickly as it appeared when his skill dominated the foreground of their moment. 

It was dizzying the way he kissed, the force behind it, the artful pulls— he knew how to manipulate it, to set a pace that suited him. To rob her breath and make her head spin. She was putty in his hands, butterflies rampant behind her ribs. 

But then, against her better judgement, emerald eyes fluttered open and slid to that bed looming just a few feet away. 

That indomitable, imposing, intimidating bed.

The nerves were back tenfold.

"Shit," she mumbled against his mouth. "Shit. Fuck, sorry."

Harri shrank into the couch, recoiling from the contact— Voldemort tilted his head to the left in a silent, confused question as she retreated. That confusion, however, promptly gave way to concern when the girl ran her hands through her hair agitatedly. 

The stretching shadows from the candlelight did little to conceal the blatant apprehension crossing her face. 

"Sorry, I— fuck." Her tongue ran skittishly over kiss-swollen lips. " I- I don't know what I'm doing."

Voldemort blinked, bewilderment drawing his brows together. 

Harri glanced uneasily over to the silk sheets before turning back to him— and how she hated that, even during the moments when he looked utterly lost, the edge of his attractiveness refused to be dulled. She groaned again, stomach lurching as her insecurities waged battle against her desires. And though she strived to put such feelings into words, they came out as meek, feeble— a stinging truth.

"L-look, I don't know what I'm doing. Like, any of this." She gestured offhandedly to the space between their bodies. "And it's not that I don't want to, trust me I do, I just—"

Thin hands scrubbed over her face, head tilting back to rest on the lounge, "And you're probably used to a certain level of, bloody hell, _proficiency—_ Merlin, help me."

The heels of her palms pressed into her eyes— colourful bursts of abstract shapes behind closed lids. And as much as she hated to admit it, Lavender’s ominous prediction was coming true— that she was “going to regret not practicing for the one moment when it would truly matter.” But Harri always considered it to be useless advice. Empty-headed and reserved for those with normal lives and normal expectations and normal troubles— not for those who were supposed to be preparing for a _prophetic war._ Well, regrets were abundant now. She was out of her depth, her fumbling attempts to follow along barely keeping her afloat. And compared to his own experience, Harri figured she must look rather pitiful in turn. After all, look at how he kissed, how easily he coaxed things out of her— with just his _fingers_ to top it off. 

How was she supposed to compete?

Her words were muffled by the hands covering her face. "I just don't know if I'll be any good at it." 

It took a second for understanding to dawn over him. Of course, he had assumed his horcrux was, to delicately put it, inexperienced— her reactions all evening easily told him that. But hearing her confirm it? Truthfully, it did little to lessen his desire— if anything, it only heightened his greed to lay claim to something no other person had ever before. To show her a side of herself that she remained ignorant of— to show her what _they_ could be _together_.

"You're worried you won't be able to perform?" he echoed, amusement lacing the words.

Harri refused to speak, too embarrassed to verbally acknowledge the concern.

"Well, considering you already came once, I don't believe 'performing' should prove to be an issue," he teased, unable to stop himself.

Her hands fell from her face, mouth dropping to an affronted 'oh' at his crassness. She stared at him in shock, unable to believe her ears. 

"W-wait— no, that's not," she spluttered. "I just don't want to disappoint you if, you know, it's not as— you know what I mean!"

He scoffed, a disbelieving shake of his head, "Trust me, Harri, when I say it's quite impossible for you to disappoint me right now."

The hand gripping the headboard of the chaise tightened as Voldemort leaned forward, towering over her. His other hand darted to her chin, thumb digging slightly into the tender point under her jaw as he forced her to look up. A purposeful, slow grind of his hips. She inhaled sharply at the evidence of his arousal digging into her thigh— a low groan had escaped him at the friction. 

The outline was heavy, solid— real. 

Entirely too real. 

He stared down into those wide eyes, their emerald colour eclipsed by dilated pupils, voice perhaps a touch too rough. "As I said, you can’t possibly disappoint me. However, if you do not want—"

"I do," she interjected quickly.

The Dark Lord eyed the girl under him for a second, seeking to confirm if it was the truth or not— he probed the surface of their connection, not so intensively as to tip her off but just enough to get a feel. The anxiety, though still present, was seemingly placated by his reassurance, her desire currently the stronger of the two emotions. He considered it as good of a sign as any.

A peck to the corner of her mouth, Voldemort released her from his hold and rose from the lounge. Extending a hand out for his horcrux, she took it and allowed him to guide her towards the foot of the four-postered frame. 

He instructed her to turn around— Harri nervously obeyed, gathering her hair over one shoulder so he could have access to the hidden zipper.

The bedroom was encumbered by a pitiless quiet. An oppressive silence— the sanctity of it was defiled by the subtle whir of the zip gliding down, the metal key inside undoing its teeth. She shifted her weight as he nudged off the mesh neckline— a rustling as the copious amount of fabric fell from her frame, a pool of liquid starlight about her feet. 

Harri instinctively shielded her bare chest with her arms. Due to the cut of the gown, a bra had been forgone and, as she gracelessly stepped out of the dress, nearly tripping, she desperately wished it hadn't.

Teeth gnawed her bottom lip unforgivingly as she turned to face him, her pulse a frenetic, uncontrolled thing. That gaze of his certainly didn't help either— she might as well have been a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car, unable to leap out of the way of the impending danger. Scarlet eyes were sweeping across her, a slow rake she could viscerally feel as they lingered upon certain portions of herself typically covered. Harri shifted, trying to get his attention. Was she supposed to also undress him? Or let him do it himself?

He was otherwise too occupied to notice her uncertainty. 

And there it was— that queasy, see-sawing in her mind, a nauseating flux between morbid curiosity and disparaging dread as to what he must be thinking. Was she too gangly? Too awkward looking? How did she compare to the other women he had slept with? Did she measure up— or was she a disappointment? But the more she searched for the answers in his expression, the less she could find.

A difficult swallow, throat dry, scratchy— she sunk down onto the edge of the mattress. 

The movement of her shifting broke his trance.

Undoing the polished buttons of the vest, its matching tie long since discarded, Voldemort took note of her waned and pallid countenance. Another confusing reaction on her end, an enigma without a forthcoming explanation. He tensed and untensed his jaw— a war of inner-deliberation. And he _knew_ that he shouldn't, had assured her that he would refrain from such— he delved into her mind anyway. The slightest skimming, those occlumency shields fortified through months of practice still weakened in the face of her distress and distraction. 

He blinked once, utterly mystified.

'So, she's worrying about that?' In any other instance, he might have laughed at such a notion— however, the sheer gravity of her own self-deprecation was far too sobering. Crimson eyes narrowed a fraction as they traced over her turned profile and he wondered if she even knew what she looked like right now. Caught between two worlds, half-illuminated by the dancing flames of the candles— brilliant and radiant, a creature of the light. She absorbed the fire for her own, keeping it within her eyes, her skin, her hair— colours so rich that they made nature's own portraits of autumn look dull in comparison.

But that other portion belonged to the night, to the stars and the honey-suckle breeze. A stark contrast as shadows claimed half to paint bared flesh with their swirled designs. They crept past the sheer drapes, purposefully seeking her out— a magnet to even the darkest of forces in the world.

Absolutely enthralling— and the fact she possessed zero awareness of her own charm, her allure? It disturbed him perhaps more than it probably should have.

The vest fell to the floor, the shoes abandoned as he undid the first few buttons of his dress shirt. 

Cradling her cheek, he redirected her wayward attention back to him.

"You, Harri Potter, are truly the most singular, beautiful creature I have ever come across," he stated plainly, as though it were the utmost truth in the world.

And despite how many lies he told, how many fake plaudits he doled out to others, this was a compliment made in earnest— he had thought so, in fact, ever since that fateful night in the graveyard oh so many years ago. 

Her expression crumpled, suspended somewhere between relief and skepticism. Protests were already on her tongue. His lips slotted against hers, smothering them before they could be voiced. The Dark Lord leaned forward, a hand flatly pressed against her sternum in a silent command for her to move.

Harri acquiesced with some difficulty. Her back bumped against the nest of pillows lining the headboard, their kiss only breaking when the need for air became impossible to ignore. A twist in her stomach at the sensation of silk sheets under them, excited nerves alight at the fact they were actually _here_. When he had reached up to gently pry those shielding arms away, she warily allowed it.

He glanced down, unable to stave off his curiosity any longer. A man possessed, the sight of her naked chest only stirred his interest further. His wandering hand cupped one, the slightest squeeze as though to test if it was as soft as it looked. And while they weren't nearly as full as his previous partners' had been, it fit perfectly in his palm— a pleasing sight that he figured served as a testament that they were, truly, made for each other.

Experimentally rolling the peaked nipple between his thumb and index finger, a noise of approval vibrated deep in his chest at her gasp. An open-mouthed kiss was placed against the beginning curve of the other breast, her erratically beating heart felt past its uncompromising cage of bone. The sound was one he couldn't help but smile at, lips curling playfully against her skin. And that scent of roses, he noticed, had become increasingly more fragrant— a remnant, no doubt, from the flower-laced bath Narcissa had probably insisted on. 

Not that he was complaining.

"Lovely," he reaffirmed, squeezing just a touch harder.

Another kiss, the path creeping inwards— he latched on, teeth grazing over the other nipple, her back arching in response. He registered a breathy curse from her, tongue laving over the sting before redirecting his attention elsewhere— to her collarbones, the hollow of her throat, that pale silver mark of teeth long since impressed into her. 

A bruising pull on the faded scar as he teased it with a gentle bite. Fondness burst through him at how her trembling fingers were reaching greedily for his shirt only to fumble with the remaining buttons. The Dark Lord allowed her the task, pleased with the urgency in which she was trying to perform it. The term 'endearing' sprang to mind.

The hand not propping him above her grew restless. Brazenly skirting down the length of her body, it attempted to map out the contours and curves that composed her. Past the ridges of her ribcage, his fingers lazily dragging over each pronounced one. Past the curve of her waist, the skin almost unbearably warm. Past the taut stomach, the stretched muscle of it rising and falling with each uneven breath. Voldemort took a second to appreciate the slanted angle of her hips and the protruding bone that shifted under that cream-coloured canvas as she instinctively lifted them, chasing after those idle touches. 'Entirely sinful.'

But it was the satin fabric that garnered his undivided attention. Ivory and lined with lace, the underwear painted a tempting image— in the moonlight, the material shone against her. The last obstacle, the last thing that lent her any modicum of modesty— and it was the knowledge of what they guarded that made the innocent piece of clothing seem obscene. Indecent.

The grip on her hip tightened, the anticipation turning him impatient— he barely registered she had managed to unbutton his shirt until hands, scorching and searing, slipped over his chest. A hiss of surprise at the contact. 

And it was her finally touching him that did it, that made it sink in this wasn't some elaborate dream his warped imagination decided to torture him with— it was _real_. That finally, finally, she was here, those fingers trailing over his stomach both bold yet reserved at the same time. Shrugging off the button-down, he crumpled it up and threw it somewhere into the darkness beyond the bed. Wrinkles be damned. 

His entire world had been narrowed down to the girl, _his girl_ , underneath him— those needy hands reaching for him, those willowy legs bent and parted, a halo of red hair spread across the pillows. It was too much to bear— his pants tightened.

The muscle in his jaw jumped, a molten syrup coursing in his veins as their bond amplified every feeling, every sensation. 'Damn it all.' A ripping sound tore through the quiet otherwise punctuated by their ragged gasps— the shredded remains of her underwear soon joined the discarded shirt on the floor.

He inhaled sharply— the following exhalation never came. 

The breath was trapped in his lungs as he zeroed in on the smooth, sacred point resting between her legs. And while he, undeniably, found the female form to be attractive in all of its complexity, he determined she wasn’t just merely attractive— she was _exquisite_. Despite having only the moonlight to illuminate the bedroom, the sconces long since extinguished, he could clearly see the evidence of the state she had been reduced to— glistening, a pearlescent sheen overspilling. It filled him with a sense of triumph— a fleeting kiss to the concave of her stomach before he captured her mouth once more.

“Absolutely stunning,” he spoke the words into their kiss, a hand slipping between her thighs. 

Harri lifted her head to eagerly meet him, that earlier sensation of being stretched flooding back as his fingers edged in— a shudder at that curling motion. The spike of pleasure wasn’t far behind. 

Her knees attempted to close of their own volition but he easily held them open with one hand, the strength in the grip encircling her calf admittedly doing more for her than it probably should have. And, distantly, she wondered if, perhaps, she was burning alive right now. Impossibly heated, his body a cool relief against her own, she clung to him for respite— though, if she _were_ dying, this wouldn't be a terrible way to go all things considered.

She cupped his jaw in desperation to not let him pull away as those fingers kept curling at an insistent pace. That spreading weightlessness was back, albeit a touch more muted, a tightening coil as she arched up into his chest.

“ _Shit— fucking hell_ ,” a slew of curses, that buoyancy only growing—

He abruptly withdrew. 

Emerald eyes blinked up in a daze, unfocused for a second— a dip in the mattress and a creak of the frame. Her vision cleared just in time to see him stand up. 

Harri propped herself up on her elbows, a twinge deep inside of her at being unexpectedly cut off from that wonderful, floating feeling. She was about to ask what he was doing, to demand he come back, when the click of a belt buckle coming undone silenced all possible words. It drew her attention, the sound amplified in the quiet of the night. 'Oh— _oh_.'

And, despite everything they had done up until this point, despite the fact she had been completely naked under him and shaking, she still blushed at the implication. Her gaze bounced to his face, the blight of shyness overcoming her— it was a grave mistake to look directly at him. Because, despite that amusement so easily found in the arch of his brow, in that lifted corner of his mouth, his eyes were fervid. Hellfire streaked through them— embers of a sinful glow. And the longer she stared, the more Harri could feel herself becoming lost, consumed— a feeling that, she was startled to realise, she rather enjoyed at the present. 'Merlin, save me.'

He pushed down his pants. The startling sound of fabric being discarded— Harri averted her eyes to the canopied ceiling above the bed. She could actually feel her blush deepen when he laughed in response, a breathy sort of thing.

"You can look, you know. I do not mind."

“R-right. Sorry," she mumbled sheepishly, eyes ever-so-slowly, ever-so-hesitantly drifting back down.

And while she had seen him naked from the waist up a handful of times— an inevitable occurrence when they co-inhabited the same space— this was different. This time, there was no towel to fully hide him.

In the slanted rays of silver light, the halo from the full moon, he was transcendent— less of a 'man' and something more 'divine'. 

Adonis would weep at being usurped. 

He was _perfect—_ a term Harri applied in the literal sense. Because no matter how hard she looked, had searched in secret during those times he paraded around in a towel after showering, she couldn't find imperfections to his body— not a blemish, not a scar, not a mole. Though, perhaps _that_ was his greatest flaw—unnerving perfection to the point of being inhuman. 

Timidly, she allowed herself to get comfortable with his nudity from afar. She studied those broad shoulders, a strength in them she intimately knew. Looked past the equally broad chest that housed his lethargically beating heart, the tempo a touch too slow, too unhurried to be normal. Past the definition of his stomach, the shadow of hidden muscle she was aware of existing— phantom sensations still felt in her fingertips, the power concealed and coiled under alabaster skin. 

Past the sharp lines of his hips, the slanted 'v' that gave way to— she blinked.

He was palming himself with long, even strokes— Harri was equally fascinated and mildly horrified at the prospect of where he wanted to put it. Truth be told, her experience with the male form was painfully limited— even in the quidditch changing rooms, certain articles of clothing were always kept on to maintain a sense of decorum. And the only reason she somewhat knew what to expect was thanks to Lavender and her risque magazines she snuck into their dorm— but how different was a photograph compared to real life.

Her ears were inflamed as indecent curiosity eventually won out over shyness— if he minded her watching, he didn't say anything. In a strange way, it was sort of beautiful. The head was slightly flushed in colour, a bead of fluid gathered at its tip. There was a spark in the air, a metallic tang that she immediately recognised as magic. 'A wordless spell?' She frowned, trying to figure out what he had just done— but as he continued to stroke himself, the rest of his length started to glisten. ' _Oh_ —'. 

A dip in the mattress as he crawled towards her before slotting himself between knees that parted all too easily. His hand, fingers fanned and the bones jumping close to the surface, pressed into the tender spot just above her navel— Harri complied with the unspoken command, arms going lax as she flopped down to the nest of pillows. That hand remained there, content to feel the contraction of her stomach’s muscle with each breath— the other reached above her to anchor itself on the headboard. 

Eyes the colour of spilled wine met her own with a silent question.

Harri only managed to nod, tongue entirely uncooperative as nerves turned her pulse flighty.

Something blunt pressed against her— a breath sucked harshly between her teeth at the foreign feeling.

Voldemort shifted forward only to be met with some degree of resistance. Though, considering the nature of her situation, it wasn’t entirely surprising.

"Relax," he instructed, the word coming out strained.

The hold on the headboard turned viselike, his jaw set in determination. She was trying to listen to him, he knew she was, but her body was steadfast in its unwillingness to accept the intrusion. He ground his teeth, refusing to relent until that opposition gave way— it finally did.

The result was a shaky groan from her as he sunk in an inch. A cause for alarm, concerned eyes darted up to her pinched expression. Stillness overcame him. It was a losing battle to refrain from moving despite the overwhelming desire to do just that. And though he had tried to prep her the best he could, strived to help ease that initial discomfort, her face said it all. He was plagued by guilt— an odd feeling considering the depraved acts he had committed in this very room, considering that pain was something he usually thrived on and inflicted. 

But, on her, it was different— distressing. And, not for the first time, was he reminded of how small she was. How fragile. 

An irrational fear she might break.

"We could stop—"

 _"It's fine,_ " she gritted out. 

And Harri wasn't sure why, exactly, she said it was— because, in reality, it _burned_. She felt strange. Too full, too much, too stretched, too hot, her insides twisting uncomfortably. And yet, despite all of that, it was equally intoxicating— that much Lavender had certainly been right about. Electrifying. It was the type of pain that made her feel alive— both tethered and yet untethered at the same time. Like when she dived on her broom, racing too close to the ground as it rained and the wind stung her face— like when those droplets pelted her skin and left angry welts behind.

Perhaps there was some truth in those jokes Draco always made about her masochistic tendencies.

A bitten off moan from her when he continued to sink in, the headboard creaking dangerously under his grasp. 

A stifled grunt from him as he kept going, trying to keep the pace controlled by letting her gradually adjust inch by inch.

Harri found it difficult to breathe normally, the spasms tearing through her muscles not exactly helping. 

But then he suddenly stopped, a momentary reprieve as his forehead fell against her own. 

Lashes fanned against the planes of his cheekbones, Harri distracted herself from the discomfort by observing him. Finely shaped brows were drawn together, a deep crease set between them, his mouth thinned— he looked as though he were concentrating. She had to actively force herself to let go of the sheets, a tentative hand brushing back that defiant, stray curl from his eyes. The burning sensation was slowly ebbing, the contentment knowing he only belonged to her right now helping to lessen some of the pain.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

Scarlet eyes slowly slid open, a glint of incredulity in them as he stared down at her. He had to resist the urge to scoff. But how like his horcrux was it to be worried about someone else when, in all actuality, it was she who deserved such concern? 'Entirely too selfless.' Plus, it wasn't as if it was painful for him. Excruciating? Most certainly— albeit for different reasons. It was taking every ounce and every shred of his self-restraint to not move until she indicated it was fine. But that was quickly proving to be an insurmountable feat, the self-discipline he always prided himself on rapidly deteriorating. She was tight, a welcoming fit, the heat of her scorching— and she kept, unconsciously he was certain, clenching down around him as though trying to spur him on. It was driving him insane.

And while she may have had the initial pain to deflect it, he didn't— that, unlike her, he was experiencing the brunt of their bond. The intensity of that hazing glow kept battering against the shields of his inner-resolve— a losing war.

He huffed, "I am _fine_ , Harri. The question is, however, are _you_?"

The slightest of a frown before she nodded. "Y-yeah, I think so. You can, uhm, move, if you want?"

He didn't need to be told twice.

As though testing the waters, he withdrew only halfway— a slow roll of his hips forward to slide back in. The Dark Lord was watching her, searching for any sign that he should stop. Relieved when she appeared mostly fine, save for a grimace, he repeated the motion to get her used to it.

That rigidity was easing from her steadily, a flush bringing colour back to once pallid cheeks. When she started to visibly relax, the initial resistance mostly fading as her body turned pliant, he increased the pace into quickened, shallow thrusts that disrupted the sheets underneath them.

The hand pressing into her stomach grabbed one of her ankles and lifted it up— she had taken the hint and loosely wrapped her legs about his hips. With a satisfied hum, he spared a quick glance down to where they were joined, that bloom of possessive greed sated with the sight of himself driving into her. 

Reaching between her legs, idle fingers found that sensitive bundle of nerves with a light brush that earned a gasp. He smirked while increasing the pressure, entirely obsessed with eliciting a reaction. That rosebud mouth had rounded off, slackened, a look of ecstasy painting her features. It was clear she was starting to feel the effects of their bond, those invisible threads connecting them together— a pull at their cores as their souls recognised a long-lost twin. 

Her legs constricted, sunbursts dancing across her vision. And Harri couldn’t help but wonder if sex was like this for everyone or if this was a unique experience shared just between them. She figured it was the latter.

He was speeding up, pulling out and pushing in at what was becoming an unrestrained rhythm— she didn't entirely mind. The bed’s postered frame was groaning, the noise almost as obscene as their ragged panting. And how that friction, once uncomfortable, had morphed into a pleasure she remained ignorant of for 17 years, the burning sensation a stark contradiction to the shocks radiating out from the spot held unyieldingly under his thumb. It was going straight to her head— both her own Heaven and Hell, the man above her a god and a devil all in one.

Harri's hands found his back, the corded muscle more inviting and more satisfying to grasp at than the empty sheets.

" _Fuck_ ," she gasped at a particularly deep thrust. 

Nails sunk in. 

That had earned her a hiss from him as she left behind impressions on his skin. There was movement on her periphery as his hand released the headboard to find her hip. It was a bruising hold, an equal form of punishment as he left his own mark in turn— a thrill shot through her at the idea. 

Spilling past her lips was a strangled cry when he had angled himself to brush against that spot inside of her that made her see stars. And through the daze, Harri could sense the traces of his smug gloating.

He seemed intent on targeting that weakness, pulling out and snapping his hips forward with singular purpose— it was enough to make her lashes flutter.

Behind her ribs, the curves and twists of bone, it was utter pandemonium. Her heart was erratic, sent into overdrive and drowning in the deluge of pleasure. That coil in her stomach was forever winding, tightening— a looming threat to snap at any second. And every time he drove into her, hitting that mark, the circling of his thumb refusing to cease, she was being pushed closer towards the edge— a siren's call beckoning her to leap and freefall like an Icarus.

Something warm erupted under her nails, a tackiness seeping down into their bed— a laugh from him in response, the sound making his chest vibrate.

 _"Oh, shit—"_ She scrambled to ground herself, clawed hands dragging down his bloodied back.

Her spine curved away from the mattress, arching as electricity coursed in her veins— her toes instinctively pointed as though seeking to redirect some of that pent-up energy. Any oxygen remaining in her lungs was replaced with that damning syrup, choking her until honey could be tasted upon her tongue. Compared to earlier, this was different. This was terrifying— more untamed, more exciting. A wild thing in her chest, a rabid beast that sought to tear down the floodwalls keeping that rising tide at bay— an inevitability for it to come crashing down at any second. 

And then it did. 

Solar flares in her vision, blinding sunspots— a single name tumbling out, _"Tom—"_

The Dark Lord was captivated as she came undone before him, a cry for a saviour— for _him_. And how beautifully did she fall. How exquisitely did she tumble from the Heavens under his coaxing— he was waiting to catch her before she could completely shatter.

His mouth crashed against hers, a savage devotion sealed in that one kiss as his pace dissolved into chaotic, irregular thrusts. A caging hand found the back of her neck, a subtle squeeze as his fingers dug into its tenderness— it was a hold that refused to let her pull away as he swallowed down her euphoric cries. 

She tasted almost unbearably sweet, an errant tear escaping past her lashes to fall onto his chest— a cutting path.

Warmth, sticky and unexpected, rushed into her as a flood— he had gone impossibly still, the lines of his body held in suspension. And just as when he had first pressed in, it felt equally foreign to have him come inside of her— a strange experience that Harri couldn't liken to anything else she had ever known. 

Strange but not entirely terrible.

She was the first to slump down against the pillows, a cradle beneath her worn body— a promise of reprieve and rest. 

Her heart was stubborn in its insistence of maintaining that painful drumming— and how raw did she feel at the present. All of her senses were overloaded and buzzing. Every strand of auburn hair was individually felt, an itching, suffocating weight on her nape— even the sheets, as silken and expensive as they were, felt rough against her bare skin.

When Voldemort had disentangled their bodies a second later, slipping out of her, Harri was completely baffled by the ensuing, hollow ache— there was a twitch in her muscles as though they missed him. And as that tacky warmth trickled down onto her thighs, a distant thought formed that she desperately needed to take a shower. 

But as her attention shifted tiredly towards the bathroom door, it seemed so impossibly far away. 

A cool wash over her skin, the sharpness of his magic— a cleaning spell. 

She craned her neck with some difficulty, voice hoarser than expected. "Thanks."

There was only a hum for his acknowledgement as he propped himself up on his side, scarlet eyes running over the length of her naked body. Exhaustion was evident on her, that green gaze tired and threatening to slip close at any second. And though he, normally, would have been keen for another round, it was clear her endurance was not on par with his— yet. 'All in good time.’ Voldemort reached for the duvet and pulled it over them before gathering the girl up in his arms. 

Crowding her against him and pressing her head into his chest, he was pleased that she let him. A long leg slipped between hers to lock her into place, an arm draping over her waist— to no small amount of gratification, she wiggled in closer. Their connection had quieted to a pleasant buzz, a lulling, glowing flux in the backdrop of their shared mindscapes.

In the darkness of the bedroom, he purposefully sought out the sounds of her breathing, listening for the gentle tempo it was settling into. And how right did it seem to have her here like this. 

Safe. 

Alone. 

Undisturbed. 

That, for once, it was only them existing within the tranquillity the night was afforded— a soul partitioned out into two separate vessels but still piecing its way back together. And he knew he would give anything to keep it this way— would so readily tear the world asunder, split the earth and cleave the sky if any ever saw fit to separate them now.

She, truly, was his one, singular solace— a fact that disturbed as much as it mollified him.

Carding gently through the mess of tangled red hair, green eyes long since closed, he pressed his mouth against that raised scar above her brow.

“I would give the world to you if you merely asked for it,” he whispered solemnly. “Promise me you will never stray, never leave my arms, and everything I have will be yours.”

He wasn't expecting an answer— and none was to be found, save for the demure rising and falling of her chest. Those quiet, little exhalations. 

Crimson eyes stared unblinkingly into the darkness before him, his chin resting atop an auburn crown. And he remained that way until sleep finally saw fit to claim him for its own, until he could no longer stave off its call.


End file.
